Fakes & Fiends
by Graphospasm
Summary: Chiyo, a teenage matchmaker, is constantly approached by girls pining for Minamino Shuichi's love. She routinely turns such clients away, but Saiyuri isn't looking for romance. She's merely after revenge for the hell Shuichi unwittingly made of her life.
1. Chapter 1: Modus Operandi

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 01:

"Modus Operandi"

* * *

I hate hangnails more than anything in the world. It's why I keep a nail kit in my purse at all times and its why I spend most of my allowance on manicures. Never pedicures, though. I hate people looking at my feet.

Yamamura Yoko, however, wouldn't quit looking at them, not that I blame her. I always prop my legs up on the desk in front of me when I sit down; force of habit, I suppose. It shocks some of the more... shall I say 'refined,' girls? The word I actually want to use is 'snotty,' but I never insult clients to their face.

Unless they deserve it, of course.

"Um, well," she said, obviously a bit more reticent after I made her shuck her mantle of friends at the door, "um, well, Makoto-sempai..."

"Call me Chiyo," I said, studying my nails with a frown. I had over-clipped the ring finger on my right hand; the others would have to be filed down to match. With a sigh I reached into the pocket of my skirt (I had added the pockets myself to hold my nail gear) and pulled out my favorite emory board. Pink with yellow hearts and a wonderfully dense texture. It had been love at first sight.

"Oh. Chiyo-san..."

I looked at her sharply. "I told you to call me 'Chiyo.' No san, no chan, no anything. Just Chiyo." I almost cursed at myself; losing my temper was _so_ not professional.

Yoko looked like a frightened rabbit, so I smiled my warm, practiced smile to lessen her fears.

"Sorry, it's been a rough day. You're Yamamura Yoko, right? Can I call you Yoko-chan?"

Her cheeks colored below her fringe of dark brown bangs and her big brown eyes said How the heck did you know my name? Her lips, however, just said: "S-sure."

_And I know a lot more where that came from, sugar,_ I thought with wry humor._ Blood type O,_ c_lass 6-B, good at English and Japanese, a member of the cooking club. Likes the color green and is completely up to date on last season's fashion. Whoops! 157 centimeters tall, 51 kilograms in weight, and you just got your braces off. Snobby and self-important, you think you should get handed everything you want because your lawyer mom and car-dealer dad never denied you a dime, but you'd hate to work for a thing and you cower in the face of any adversity. _I couldn't help but smirk. _Yeah, I know you pretty well. _

"Well, great!" I said instead, forcing good cheer. Another smile; this time she smiled back, if a little tentatively, and in a self-calming gesture I filed my nails a little faster. "Now what can I do for you?"

She took a deep breath. "Chiyo-sa—I mean, Chiyo... I'm in love with a boy." The resulting blush could have rivaled a tomato. "I was told... I mean, everyone knows that you can help."

I tilted my head toward my nails but kept looking at Yoko through my lashes. All but my thumb on my right hand were the appropriate length at that point.

"I can," I said.

Her face showed relief, but then she looked expectant. Obviously she thought I was going to say something, she obviously thought I was going to take care of everything, don't ya worry 'bout a thing, baby, but I didn't. I waited until I saw sweat bead on her brow before asking: "What's his name?"

"Uchari Hideki," she said, the name exploding out of her mouth like vomit. It was as if she'd been just dying to say it this whole time.

"Uchari-san," I mused. "Really?"

"Uh-huh."

"And why do you like him?"

She blinked at me, stupefied.

"It's a simple question," I said, not even looking at her at that point. My nails were just so much more interesting. "Why. Do. You. Like. Uchari-san?"

"I love him," she said in disbelief, unable to say anything else.

I raised my head and my eyebrow at the same time. I knew Uchari-san very well; in fact, I had a dossier on that guy even more complete than the one I had on Yoko. Blood type AB, class A-2, baseball team stud with gorgeous honey-brown eyes, chestnut-colored hair he didn't even have to dye, a svelte and muscular physique, 175 centimeters tall, good grades, a poor family, an after-school job as a courier, and a penchant for melonbread dipped in soy sauce. He didn't like karaoke and he loved sporty girls (a category Yoko was definitely not a member of) and he was an upperclassmen, to boot.

Frankly, I could not have picked anyone less suited to Yoko's tastes if I tried.

She was still gaping at me when I finished going over his file in my head. I raised my eyebrow even higher.

"Well?" I asked.

She looked at her lap, shame-faced.

My feet swung off the desk and hit the floor with a crack that made Yoko jump in her chair. I set my nail-file on the desk.

"I get," I said, folding my hands on the table, "about forty girls in here a week. Most of them want to meet a specific guy. Over a third of them ask me for the same person. Lately, that person has been Uchari-san." I leaned toward her. She looked up in shock. "That's roughly thirteen-point-three girls a week after Uchari-san's tail. Do you get what I'm getting at?"

She couldn't answer, eyes wide and numb.

"Going after a guy because he's popular is one thing," I deadpanned, "but wasting my time to go after a guy you don't even _like_ is another thing entirely. Why don't you actually try to get to know a guy before you decide to go after him? You'll save yourself and _my_self a lot of trouble." I put my feet back on the desk and picked up my file. Unfortunately, my nails were all the same length. I exchanged the file for a buffer out of my pocket. "You're not in love with Uchari-san. In fact, I bet the only reason why you came to me about him is because your friends pestered you into it. Isn't that right?"

She nodded.

"Well, now that that's settled," I said, "please leave. Feel free to come back, but only after you go after a guy for more reasons than his popularity." I waved a hand at her. "Now shoo."

She left, face solemn. Obviously she was thinking about what I'd said. Good. She needed to.

I leaned my head back against the chalkboard. "Aye, me," I said, the soft scritch-scritch of my buffer breaking through the perfect quiet. Around me, the abandoned classroom seemed to hum with silence.

The door opened not a second after it closed behind Yoko.

"Hi," said my new client uncertainly. "Makoto Chiyo-san?"

I looked up to find a tall girl with short black hair, a slender figure, and light glasses standing in the doorway.

"And you must be Uzumari Hotaru-san," I said. Her eyes popped open in surprise, but I just waved my buffer at her. "Dude, we had chemistry together last year. How's senior year treatin' ya?"

She sat down in the chair in front of me without any awkwardness at all. "I forgot we had that class. It's been such a long time; I'm surprised you remember me."

"Never forget a face," I said, shrugging. _Or a name, or a birthday, or a blood type, or an anything, for that matter. Hell, I know every last student ID number in this goddamn school._

"So I've heard. People say you know everything."

I laughed. "Not _every_thing. Just enough to make people sweat."

She laughed, too, then sobered.

"There's something I need to know," she said.

I raised my hands to either side of my body, open. "I'm all ears, babe."

"I like a guy," she said. "I need to know if he likes me back before I make a confession."

"Are you talking about Akane Jun?"

Her jaw dropped, to my extreme satisfaction, and then she looked suspicious. "How did you know?" she asked in a low voice.

"Don't look so surprised. You two are always together in the halls." I shrugged, examining how shiny my nails were after a good buffing session.

"B-but to notice something like that about a person you don't even hang out with..." She trailed off when she saw my steely stare, but she did not back down. "So it's true, then? You're eidetic?"

I shrugged, trying not to appear uncomfortable. "It comes in handy with a job like mine." I jabbed my buffer at her. "But enough about me. Let's talk about you. How much do you like Akane-san?"

She stiffened.

"A lot, I'm guessing," I said dryly. "But what would you say if I said that someone else has come to me about Akane-san?"

Hotaru went as still as a dead person.

"Now answer my first question," I continued. "How much do you like him?"

It took her a while to say something. "And does my answer determine if you'll help me or not?"

I just grinned.

"Well, then," she said, and paused.

_What will you say? _I thought. I tried not to show my interest on my face.

"I," she said, "would tell you, if you told me that another girl was interested in Jun, that I would let her have him if he liked her more than he liked me."

I stopped buffing my nails.

"I want him to be happy," she explained. She looked both radiant and borderline sick at once. "And if his happiness meant not having him as my boyfriend, I guess..." She shrugged. "Sorry, that sounded like something out of a sappy drama, I know."

I shook my head, smiling. "Mmm. I'll help you."

"... what?"

"I said I'll help you."

She didn't seemed to buy it. "You mean you're gonna abandon the other girl just like that?"

I wagged my buffer at her. "Ah, but I never said there was another girl, now did I? I just asked you what you'd say if there _was_ another girl."

Her mouth fell open again.

"Yeah, I pull that trick on most girls. To check if they're sincere or not, ya know? It makes some of them mad, but in the end it helps me weed out the ones looking for attention or the girls who are just after the popular guys." I rolled my eyes. "One of them just left, actually, and stop looking so shocked. You passed my little test, for what it's worth. Oh, and yeah, he likes you back. It's pretty obvious."

"But..."

"But what?"

"It's just," she said, swallowing, "that this was so... easy."

"You were expecting a questionnaire?"

"Well... kind of, yeah. An explanation of our relationship, at least."

The flabbergasted look on her face made me smirk. "I'm eidetic, remember? I remember everything. The way Akane looks at you is no exception." I motioned to the door. "You can go if you want. You got what you came for."

She stood up. "Do I owe you anything."

My finger drummed against my chin. "I usually charge for my time, but in your case, just spread the word about my little business and I'll consider us straight." I laughed. "I didn't do any work, after all. Just noticed stuff."

Grateful, elated, anxious—that's what I saw in her pretty oval face. "Thank you," she said. "I mean it."

I tipped an imaginary hat her way. "Welcome. I wish you every happiness."

More clients surged in over the course of the next two hours. Boys and girls looking to put their crush's name in my Match Box walked away hopeful and optimistic; I didn't have the heart to tell any of them that the odds of having a match reciprocated via the Match Box were never very good. If indeed a boy submitted the name of a girl who had previously submitted his name, or vice versa, there was fanfare and more than enough positive publicity to send a surge of hopefuls in my direction, but the Match Box gimmick wasn't what I was known for. Rather, lonely people (and rejects of the Match Box who never had their crushes reciprocated) trusted me to choose for them another lonely person who would be more than just a Saturday night blind date. My matches had an almost perfect success rate. Using my keen eye for observation (and instant memorization of student files thanks to my eidetic memory) I was able to pair people up with great partners whose sparks didn't fizzle out the way most teen romances did.

One of my first couples—two highschool students I had matched as a middleschooler, still a fledgling to the game of love but showing a knack for it regardless—was still together, even after weathering a long-distance relationship during their college years. I'd received an engagement announcement at the beginning of my final highschool year, and I'd pinned it to my bulletin board as proof of my service's legitimacy. I can't tell you how many of my classmates had fawned over that thing when I first put it up. Speaking of which...

"I should probably call a meeting soon," I said to myself during a lull in the customer flow. "Hosting this in the schoolyard would suck."

I set up shop after school (from school's end to six in the evening, day in and day out except for weekends) in an empty classroom, one which was supposedly the domain of a school club. The club, however, was nothing more than a front for my business. I asked some of my most satisfied couples to sign up for the club so I could have a proper place to matchmake, and with their names (given as willing payment for my services) on a petition I had started the psychology club. I had to host little meetings with those couples from time to time to appease the faculty, but otherwise I was pretty much in control of things. It was a real improvement from lurking in an seldom-used PE equipment shed.

By the time I was ready to wrap up for the day and go home, I had completely trimmed and smoothed the nails on my right hand, and I was just about done with my left. I was just packing my file and buffer into my pocket when _she_ walked in. Without a word she sat in the client's chair, knees pressed tight together and hands folded demurely in her lap. She looked bored, mostly, but under that I could see something else: coiled tenseness, a goal, and maybe a touch of nerves if I was reading her right. I couldn't be sure though. That face of hers was like a mask, except for the eyes.

"What can I do for you?" I asked. I knew her face, but it took me a moment to conjure up her name: Ojuro Saiyuri. I didn't know much about her, excepting what I had seen on her student information sheet. The realization that I knew nothing of her personal life irked me. It was my job to know.

She didn't say anything, but her eyes appraised me the way a butcher judges a piece of meat. With a start I realized something, something I did not like: Ojuro Saiyuri intimidated me and she hadn't even said a word. I was not used to that.

To comfort myself, I focused on what I did know. My hand snuck into my pocket and brought out my emory board. _Ojuro Saiyuri, class A-1, blood type A, only contact listed is her father,_ I thought as I pulled up a mental snapshot of her info sheet. _Birthday, December 1, height, 170 centimeters, __weight, 54 kilograms. Grades are above average and counselor's note just said 'quiet.' A real enigma __all right._

I studied her, matching her stoicism with my own as I absentmindedly filed my thumbnail. Long black hair to her elbows, stringy and in need of a wash, cut with little style (probably by herself, if the uneven ends were any indication), uniform skirt hanging well past her knees, no makeup, no jewelry, quiet shoes, a bookbag with no key chains or distinguishing marks... In fact, the only thing I really _noticed_ about her was her eyes, a dark charcoal gray that bordered on burnished silver. Everything else just appeared... ordinary. Nerdy. Like she had never cared about her looks or popularity or boys before in her life.

With that in mind, I could think of no reason for her being in my presence.

_So I guess even ice queens get the hots now and then,_ I thought, suppressing a smirk. I conjured every unforgettable memory that included her in it, and none of them showed her with any sort of friend in the picture. That dried up my joke real quick, and when she spoke it shriveled up and vanished altogether.

"I need your help," she said in a silky alto voice, one which didn't quite cover up the hardness beneath the words.

"I figured," I told her.

She did not seem to get the sarcasm, but if she did she did a hell of a good job not showing it. "I want to know everything about an individual at this school. I was told that you excelled at such affairs." Her stiff and formal manner of speaking made me think of Victorian movies acted by robots.

"You were told right, Ojuro-san."

A ripple passed over her features.

"Class A-1, right?" I said, feeling better now that I was intimidating _her_.

"Correct," she said, face retreating into smoothness. "I see the rumors were true, then."

I shifted in my seat, sliding my feet farther onto the desk and my butt further down into my chair. I was using the teacher's empty table, of course—it looked better for business if I seemed like I was in a position of power.

"You're a crass girl with an eye for detail and information," Saiyuri went on. "You can read people well, use your eidetic memory to analyze their personality, and you don't take kindly to being played. Your likes include fashion and your own fingernails-" she glanced at my hands "-and you dislike social climbers."

"We're not here to talk about me," I said. "We're here to talk about you. What do you want?"

"Your help," she said, speaking slowly as if to a small child. "I believe I already told you that."

"Can't help if I don't know what you want," I snapped, and I mentally berated myself. _Calm down, Chiyo!_

"I see your point," she said. "Allow me to cut to the chase. I want to know everything—and I mean everything—about Minamino Shuichi ."

The emory board slipped from my fingers and fell into my lap. I stared at her, stricken, and picked it up again, but I did not continue filing.

"I don't," I said coldly, "do Minamino."

She smiled without showing her teeth. "I had a feeling you would say that."

"Then why'd you even come here?" I said, not bothering to hide the venom in my tone.

"Because you're the best. And because I need your help."

I started filing again, viciously attacking all my nails in turn. "Let me explain something," I growled, grinding the board into my skin on accident. "I get roughly sixty clients a week, forty of which are girls. That's a little less than nine girls a day, and I'm not counting the Match Box people in those numbers, either. Most of the sixty in-persons are repeat customers who need to consult with me about a match I'm working on, but a quarter—an entire 25 percent of them!—come here asking me about Minamino Shuichi." I looked up at Saiyuri, who didn't bat an eye. "I turn down each and every one of them, and do you know why?"

She didn't say anything.

"It's because he's _just_, _not_, _interested_." I waved the emory board in the air, punctuating my simmering anger with jabs and thrusts. "By my estimates, I've had at least 98 percent of this entire school come to see me or use the Match Box. The remaining two percent of people are either nerds so caught up in cram school they don't have time for a relationship, or are people who've had the same girlfriend since kindergarten. And one of the nerds I mentioned is none other than Minamino Shuichi." I pinned Saiyuri with a glare. "I don't force people into relationships, and he's never volunteered. Stop wasting my time with this."

"This is different," Saiyuri said softly.

"Oh, I'm sure it is," I said, laughing. "You and all the other ones asking about him say the same thing, that they're special or different or whatever, but guess what? You're not. None of you are. That guy has never opened up to anyone in his entire life and I don't think he wants to, either. He never makes friends, he never steps out of line, he has a perfect face and perfect grades, and he's never so much as taken a second glance at a girl that wasn't because she was standing in his goddamn way."

"This is different," Saiyuri repeated, "and you _will_ help me."

"No, I won't." I shoved my file in my pocket and stood up, grabbing my bag out from under the desk with shaking hands. The Minamino addicts never ceased to infuriate me. "If there's one thing I've learned in eight years of matchmaking, it's that that guy's a lost cause and you can't force love. Goodbye, and don't you dare come back to me with him in mind."

I got halfway to the door when she said the thing that stopped me.

"What if I'm not interested in love?"

I didn't turn around. "I don't do hookups."

"What if I'm not interested in sex?"

I turned. She stared at the desk in front of her.

"Call me dense, but what else is there? Friendship?"

"Never," she breathed in a voice so calm and deadly it made me shiver. Her head moved just enough for one of her eyes staring straight into mine.

My mouth went dry. "Then what?" I said.

She stood up and turned my way.

"I need to know everything about him," she said. "My reasons are my own, and you _will_ help me."

"No, I won't," I said for the second time. "You're in class A-1, right? So's Minamino. Just talk to him there, why don't you?"

"You will help me," she said, voice as silky as a snake, "if you want your secret to stay that way."

I laughed. "You trying to blackmail me?"

"I'm not _trying_ anything," she said, disgust showing that I had insulted her.

"Oh, my bad," I chortled. Then my blood ran cold.

"I'm not _trying _to blackmail you. I _am_ blackmailing you." Her eyes hit me like bullets.

"You're not the first," I said, trying to speak lightly despite my growing unease. "What makes you think you know anything about me that's blackmail material?"

She inclined her head back and to one side. "I know your secret," she said.

I scoffed. "So do most people, if you're talking about my memory."

"I'm not," she said.

"Then what?" I asked, _because there's no way you could ever know about the one thing I've always tried to hide. I've been careful._

"I've been watching you for a few weeks," she said. I raised an eyebrow. "I kept out of sight, however, because I knew you'd notice me following you."

"Oh, how clever," I said, mocking her, and thought: _There's still no way you could know about me._

"And as I watched you, I noticed one thing. You would have picked up on it faster, of course, but I do not have your genetic resources." She paused. "Pity. They would come in handy."

"Get to the point," I snapped.

"You avoid pools," she said, cutting to it, "even during PE at school on pool days, which most girls love. You always wear socks, even when it's hot. You never wear open-toes shoes, not even on weekends and despite your love of fashion." Her head tilted farther to the side; her eyes traveled down my body. "I read a psychology book on phobias and paranoia, just to be sure. I think you know what I'm getting at."

Her eyes settled on my feet.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said faintly, trying not to vomit. _No, please, no, I—_

"You do," she said, and then she smiled with her teeth. The shark from Jaws had nothing on her. "And rest assured, I will tell everyone about it if you refuse to help me get what I need."

My breathing hitched.

"You bitch," I said calmly. "You utter, utter bitch."

Her shark-smile faded into mere pleasantness.

"It was nice doing business with you, Chiyo," she said, and she breezed past me into the hall. "I will see you tomorrow to discuss my plans."

I waited until she was out in the hall to look at my fingernails.

They had all been filed to the quick.

* * *

NOTE:

Chiyo: a hard-boiled detective mixed with a fashion magazine editor. Photographic memory. Short. Clinically OCD about her nails.

Saiyuri: a cold-blooded mafia hitman mixed with a shark. Little is know about her... yet. Tall, skinny, sullen, stringy hair.

Who the heck are these two? How are they going to work together when I've compared one to a detective and one to a murderer (arch enemies if there ever were a pair)? Why is Saiyuri so intent on investigating Kurama? Why is Chiyo so protective of her toes? FIND OUT NEXT TIME.

Also, this is the second new story I've posted this week, but I just wanted to get things jumpstarted so I hope you don't mind. The next three chapters of this are already finished.


	2. Chapter 2: Tea & Tension

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 02:

"Knowing"

* * *

She did not looked happy to see me; not in the slightest. "How the hell did you get my cell number?" she snapped, slamming into the chair opposite mine.

I regarded her over the lip of my teacup. "Why hello, Chiyo. It is nice to see you."

"Cut the crap, Saiyuri. What do you want?"

It was Sunday, a precious day off from school that could be used to do all manner of entertaining things, but I had looked in the school directory for Chiyo's number instead. Then I'd text messaged her: _Meet me at cafe De La Rue in an hour. Do not be late._

She had not asked who I was. It had, apparently, been obvious.

"Order something," I said, waving at the trendy little place buzzing around us. A basket of blueberry stones sat on the table. "Look, I even ordered us some scones, and I picked this place because I thought you might like it."

She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Yeah, right. You saw me come here while you were stalking me. Admit it."

I put down my teacup. "Stalking sounds so negative. Call it 'reconnaissance'." I dropped my pitch even lower than usual. "It's what you excel at, after all."

She did not blush, to her credit, but she did pick up a menu with her lips pressed into a thin white line. I was starting to like her, if only a little. She could play my game. In fact, she'd very nearly been running it until I played dirty with the blackmail... not that I felt bad about doing so, of course.

I'd do anything to get what I wanted.

The young waiter came over, stuttering and turning pink about the ears as Chiyo flirted with him. She was a pretty girl, Chiyo: long brown hair light enough to be somewhat exotic; smooth skin, caramel in color; huge brown eyes flecked with bottle green; a slender face; high cheekbones; a body that managed to be leggy and long despite her diminutive height—really, her body seemed too petite to suit her spirit and her ridiculously large eyes made her seem more like a child than an expert love doctor (though the effect was negated when she was glaring, glowering, or gauging her opponent with said eyes, which happened more often than not), but she was a pretty package nonetheless.

Her confidence, however, was what gave her a special glow. Without that air of self-assurance she would have been just another marginally good looking young woman, a drop in a bucket and yet another face in a faceless crowd.

She wasn't like me. People looked at her on their own. I had to blackmail them to get any sort of attention.

The waiter moved away with her order. I pulled my plain bag atop the small table, shoving my nearly empty teacup and saucer aside. I took out my checkbook and a black pen, opened the checkbook, and uncapped the pen. Chiyo's name was already on the recipient line.

"How much?" I asked.

She didn't appear to understand. "How much of what?"

"Money. How much money. What do you normally charge for this sort of thing?"

Chiyo raised an eyebrow. "You're blackmailing me _and_ paying me? Wow, I would feel special if that actually made sense."

"What do you mean?"

She gave me a look that said I was a total idiot. "Paying, blackmail... those things don't mix."

"But why not?"

"Because... because they just don't, OK?" She broke a scone in half but did not eat it. Blueberries bled onto her plate. "Haven't you seen any cop shows?"

"I detest television," I said, "because it's usually wrong, just as it is in this case."

"What's so wrong about it this time?"

"Blackmailing a person makes them hate you," I said, trying to explain it to her in a way she could understand, "and constantly look for a means of revenge. Paying a person makes them actively want to work for you on a reward-based system, especially if you pay them fairly." She still didn't seem to get it. "I simply used blackmail to force you into a fair-pay system. The pay negates the revenge factor, giving me less to worry about."

Her eyes flashed; the scone crumbled between her fingers.

"But by telling me that," she said venomously, "you've negated that negation, now haven't you? And you know what grammar Nazis have to say about double negatives."

I shrugged. "It's negated if I pay you enough." I penned a number on the line and slid the book to Chiyo.

"You can't buy me," she snapped, but then she saw the number. Her eyes bugged out of her head, eyelashes fanning around like an anemone.

"I believe," I said slowly, "I can."

Chiyo swallowed, staring at the page. "That's enough money to buy me... oh. Oh, wow." A chuckle made her cheeks go pink. "Christ. Christ. This check won't bounce, will it?"

I grimaced. "I should hope not."

"Where the heck did you come up with money like this?"

I said nothing. Chiyo stared at the book, but the longer she stared the more her smile faded. Eventually she sighed and pushed the checkbook back at me.

"I can't accept that," she said.

"Do you need more?" I asked, ready and willing to up the amount, but she looked horrified and snatched the pen out of my hands.

"No," she said, insulted. "No, I don't need more. That's more money than I've made this year put together and _doubled_. No, I don't need _more_!"

"So... less?"

She started to yell at me, hands with their perfectly painted nails thrown up above her head, but then she bit her lip and just waved ineffectively at the air.

"You... you don't get it," she said, sounding like she was about to laugh.

"Apparently not," I said dryly, and I waited for an explanation.

She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable and showing it. "I don't," she said, fighting for words, "usually work for money."

"Clothes? Cars? Plastic surgery?" I said, rattling off some options.

"No!" she said, looking horrified.

My patience wore thin. "Then what?"

"Well..." She hesitated. "It depends on the client."

"And what type of client am I?"

This time she actually did laugh. "You're not like any client I've ever had in my life. That's one of the reasons I don't really know what to charge you."

I slowly closed the checkbook, but I did not put it back in my purse. "What would you charge me if I was a regular client?"

She took a bit out of her scone. Chewed. Swallowed. A crumb clung to her lipgloss. "It would depend on your sincerity level," she said, "not to mention your intentions."

"Explain."

I didn't understand why she just smiled and picked up her purse until she pulled the folder out of it. It was one of those huge black leather organizers with a key-lock clasp, and the key, as it turns out, was on a chain around Chiyo's neck.

"This is my book of tricks," she said as she opened it up. "It's more for others than it is for me, because I know everything in here by heart. But sometimes, like right now, I have to share." She turned the book around and pushed it my way.

I studied it. Eight brightly colored tabs—in rainbow order, of course—separated the massive load of papers inside. The first one (colored red) was labeled "Match Box." I flipped it to a page at random. A young girl smiled in her school photo, and below it was a neatly typed-up page of information in tiny print.

"Tab color indicates client type," Chiyo explained. "Red tab has my Match Box clients. You can see the name she submitted at the bottom of her page. Boys are first, then girls. I have cross-referencing sheets at the back of the section."

"Efficient."

"Yeah. Next tab is orange for from-scratch matchmaking. Success rates and failed attempts included on info page, though there aren't many failures so good luck finding them. Then it's yellow for advice-seeking clients— ton of guys, oddly enough; their questions are on their pages, too. Then it's green, for information seekers." She paused. "You might be a green-tab, come to think of it, but not in the traditional sense."

"Which is?"

"Mmm... people come to me wondering if so-and-so likes them back, if so should they confess, yadda yadda yadda. But you're not after that with Minamino, are you."

I looked up. She was staring at me through shrewd eyes.

"No," I said softly. "I'm not."

We had a moment of silence, and then she continued speaking.

"Next tab is blue. It's for love-interests of my clients who are not my clients."

"And I suppose Shuichi's in there?"

She shook her head. "I'm getting there."

I waved her onward. "Proceed."

She did. "Next tab is purple. It's for people who aren't clients or love interests."

"I'm noticing nerds, mostly," I observed as I flipped through it.

"Well, yeah." She acted like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which I didn't understand. "Anyway, next tab is black." She hesitated.

"What?"

"It's for the people who I've blacklisted as clients," she said in a somber voice. "For the people who tried to use me. For the ones who weren't sincere at all."

I opened up to the section's very first page. My face stared back at me, dark glowering eyes and lank hair and all. The picture had been drawn by hand; it was incredibly accurate, but more like a snapshot than an artist's rendering.

"I see," I said, keeping my voice calm. "When was I put in here?"

She offered no apologies, nor did she try to justify herself. I liked that. "I transferred you from the purple section when I got home after we talked."

I scanned my page. There was all my information, bare to the world and easy to see, and with trepidation my face did not express I scanned it. There was my name, my birthday, my father's name, all of our contact information, the address of our home, my grades, the name of my middle school, my class number...

There was also a date, and it was from my freshman year of highschool.

I breathed a silent 'thank you' to the ceiling. This sheet was too old to cover the most important—and the worst—period of my life. That meant Chiyo didn't know.

"I went from invisible to infamous in an hour," I mused when my heart stopped hammering at my lungs. _She doesn't know. Thank god, she doesn't know._

"You're relieved," Chiyo said.

My head snapped up.

"Your pupils dilated, your skin flushed, and your face got a little oilier." She was speaking like a surgeon, clinical and detached. "Then your tension subsided a little, and your jaw relaxed. All signs of nervousness followed by intense relief. You're hiding something."

My mouth felt dry. I didn't say anything.

"Fine. Go ahead and plead the fifth, then." Her tone reminded me of people discussing the weather, all pleasantness and soft cheer. "But trust me, I know you know what I'm talking about, and I will, too. Sooner or later." She smiled, but there was nothing kind in it. "You're not dealing with a money-hungry girl, Saiyuri. You're dealing with a business woman, and I protect my business with my life. So when I find out whatever it is you're hiding, rest assured I will repay you exactly the way you should be repaid. A taste of your own medicine, as it were."

I didn't drop her gaze. It was difficult. "What's in the last tab? The white one."

The tense spell broke. "Open it and see," she said, becoming the crass and funny girl she had been a few minutes before.

I did. "Uchari Hideki," said the first page. The second page said "Omakua Reisha."

"All of these people are very popular," I said, looking at the slew of handsome faces and perfect hair. "School idols, in fact."

"White's for the interesting ones," she said, and that was when I found _his_ page. My vision blurred at the sight of his face, that bland smile, that gorgeous hair and those expressive eyes. He looked gently amused in the copy of his school photo, and with relish I realized that Chiyo had all of his home information neatly put together.

"How did you get this?" I asked breathlessly, looking at his birthday, address, blood type; the names of his family I committed to memory, his teacher notes I read like a Bible. Wonderful learner, intelligent, quiet, responsible, loner, popular.

He was just so real to me now.

Chiyo reached into her pocket, took out a small square of pink material, and began to buff her nails. "'Fraid I can't tell you that. Trade secret."

I tore my reluctant eyes away from Shuichi's smile and glared at her. Seeing his face had put me back on track, and Chiyo was looking particularly smug.

"You tell me now or I'll tell everyone about your foot," I hissed.

Her smug look vanished, and she fished two fingers into the neck of her top. The necklace holding her book's key had, I saw then, more than one key on it. She picked out the largest and held it between her middle and index fingers.

"Key to the admissions and counselor's office," she said through clenched teeth.

"And how did you procure that?" I asked.

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you mean." The keys fell to her chest with a clink. "I saw it get used and I managed to draw it well enough for a locksmith to reproduce. Told him it was to a shed I'd lost the key for."

"You mean you remembered all those little grooves?" I asked, momentarily amazed. "All the teeth, the ridges, all of it?"

Chiyo grimaced, reached into her bag, and pulled out a small flower-patterened notebook. She flipped past two grocery lists to find a blank page, and then she found a pen in her purse and put it to the paper. Her hand flew in short, precise arcs, putting down lines with the deftness of a laser printer.

"I remember everything," she said, eyes on the page. "All the images I've ever seen, the sounds, the tastes... people think I'm some sort of genius since I'm good at remembering the dates in history class, but I suck at math and I'm tonedeaf, even though I can watch someone play piano and then do it by copying them." She picked up the paper, held it up, and studied it. Then she handed it to me. "There. That's a rough sketch, but you get the idea."

She'd drawn me sitting at the cafe table, hands around a mug of coffee. I was peeking out from under my hair like a frightened animal, or maybe a snake waiting to strike. All the details of the cafe were perfect, too, though rushed, and the perspective mimicked a person walking toward me: slightly from above, not straight on, angled.

"I'm not much of an artist, either," she said wryly. "I can copy everything I see but I can't do anything original. Honestly, I don't have any talents besides observation and picking up social cues."

"At least you have that," I muttered, but Chiyo did not hear. "Can I keep this?"

"What, the drawing? Sure." She took a sip of her latte. "Now, back to payment."

"Right." I handed the notebook back to her, but I kept Shuichi's picture in front of me. "I'm more of a green client than anything. How does that work."

"Are you satisfied by whats on that page?" She gestured at the book.

"No," was my immediate response. "No, it's not enough." My breathing felt labored. "I want... more. I want you to find out everything there is to know about him, no matter the cost. I want _everything_."

Chiyo looked slightly disgusted, probably at the way I was running my fingers down Shuichi's glossy page, but I couldn't help it. I was finally getting somewhere at last.

"Define 'everything'," she said. "You've got all his contact information and medical history right there. Do you want likes and dislikes and all that crap too? Because only knowing what someone likes isn't enough to get them to fall in love with you, because—"

"This isn't romantic!" I snapped.

"Then what is it?" Chiyo shot back. "You know, healthy skepticism is one thing, but not even trusting the people you're asking favors from is a bit psycho."

My hands clenched. Chiyo stopped talking, staring at me like I had sprouted a second head, and I felt something warm trickle down my chin. I put my trembling fingers there; they came away bloody. I had bitten my lip, I supposed, but I could barely see the blood for the rage that made my eyes go dim.

"Don't you ever," I said in a low voice, "_ever_ call me that again."

"Sure," Chiyo was quick to say. "Sure, I won't."

We sat in silence.

"I never finished telling you about the payment," she said, not looking at me.

I was busy dabbing blood off my lips with a napkin and did not respond.

"I ask my from-scratch matches to give me money based on how long it takes me to find them a partner. I never overcharge though. To the most sincere, I only ask a bit of advertising. 'Tell others about me,' that stuff. Or I just ask them to make good on any favor I ask of them. Advice seekers and info seekers tend to pay cash or favor promises depending on how hard it is to get what they want me to find. If I already have what they want, I just ask them to advertise me. There's a flat fee—low, of course—to use the Match Box." she paused. "Many people criticized me for charging money at first, but then they actually saw the numbers and backed off. And if someone can't afford it, I just ask for favors. There're contracts that I ask the flaky-looking ones to sign."

"So I can either pay cash or offer you a favor?" I said, not wanting to dwell on the idiosyncrasies of her business. Did I even really care? No, I didn't.

She was still buffing her nails. The sound made me wince. "Yeah."

"Cash, then." I tore the previously-rendered check out of its book and slid it toward her. "I don't like being in debt."

But Chiyo shook her head, not touching the money. "I'd be the one in debt. It's way too much."

Her refusal irked me. "Just take it."

"No."

"Use some of it to find out more about him," I urged. "It can be for the hours you'll spend, plus any incidentals regarding his case. Keep whatever's left over. Bribe his doctor; I don't care."

I could tell she wanted the money. I could tell that her conscience said otherwise. After a few moments of silent tension, her conscience lost that battle and she picked up the check.

"I'm going to spend some of it on you, you know," she said. "Just wait. I'll get you some bronzer. You need it."

I glanced down at my arm. Bone-white and thin, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washed over me. The sensation was an alien one. I had never been aware of my appearance before, and I didn't like it at all.

"_Now_ are you going to tell me what you want me to be looking for?" Chiyo asked, snapping me out of my reflection. She pocketed the check with a gingerness I couldn't fathom. It was only _money_.

"You'll know it when you see it," I told her. She opened her mouth to protest, but I held up a hand. "You're intelligent, Chiyo. When you see it, you'll know. The thing I'm looking for is... almost otherworldly. It's unmistakeable."

We traded looks—mine serious, dark, and sincere, hers hot, combative, and incensed—and then she stood up. Her short skirt fluttered prettily.

"You think I'm an idiot," she said, voice rough with anger, "but we'll see who's laughing when, six months from now, I've ignored the thing you wanted me to find because you were too much of a paranoid _bitch_ to tell me what it was." She reached forward, grabbed the book, and tore Shuichi's plastic-wrapped page out of it so hard that it almost tore. "Take this," she said, tossing it at me. My arm snaked out to catch it. "I can just make a new one."

She left, then, storming out like a fashionable tornado. A bell tinkled above the door when she vanished from my sight.

Eventually I followed, but only after I'd finished the rest of my stone cold tea.

* * *

I waited until I got home—into my dark room at the top of the stairs—to study and absorb Minamino Shuichi. My hands trembled as I flipped on my desk lamp, slid Shuichi's page out of its plastic protection sheet, and set it before me. His eyes, green and bold in the photograph, seemed to stare right back into my soul.

_Name: Shuichi Minamino_

_Blood Type: A_

_Parents: Minamino Shiori, recently remarried to Hatanaka Kazuyu, father of Hatanaka Shuuichi._

_School Rank: 1 out of 426_

_Class: 1-A_

I knew all of that already, of course. The next parts dealt with his contact information, height and weight, and birthday, but I wasn't too interested in all of that so I skimmed down to the counselor's notes. There were three sets of these, one for each year he had been enrolled in Meioh High, and each set got progressively shorter.

_Notes (Yr. 1): Entrance exam—almost perfect score. Maintained top-of-the-class status from the first day of testing. Because of this, teachers seem content to let Minamino get away with keeping his hair dyed an unnatural color. I, however, appealed to his mother, who claims the red is natural. _

_He has also played hookey more than once, but considering that his mother is dying we are letting this slip; his grades have not fallen at all despite his many absences. _

There was a gap between the words above and what followed, making me think some time has passed between entries.

_Minamino's mother has made a recovery; he stopped missing so much school._

_After the first year's midterm physical, the nurse reported a long scar stretching from Shuichi's diaphragm to his pelvis. It appeared to be a surgical cut, which would explain one of his more prolonged absences earlier in the year (recovery from surgery?). Did he donate an organ to his mother's cause? If so, he did not notify the school._

I paused when I read that. Skipping school all during his first year, a long cut, his mother's miraculous recovery... I didn't know what to make of it. I never knew his mother had been so ill, although the pity I felt for him— I knew that pain very well—didn't deter me from my far-off goal. I kept reading.

_Notes (Yr. 2): Minamino Shuichi remains top student and unfailingly polite, but he is once again skipping school at an alarming rate. He has a weak immune system, or so his mother claims. The scar reported in his first year has vanished, says the nurse._

_Two friends of Minamino's came onto school grounds uninvited, and they reportedly used a nickname to address Minamino. Isolated incident. One was recognized as Kuwabara Kazuma, a highschool student at Ortega Academy, and the other was an unknown female who wore the uniform of Sarayashiki Junior High. Hair dyed blue. Minamino associating with delinquents?_

_Minamino's hair remains in violation of school policy. _

I laughed aloud. The guidance counselor was obsessed with Minamino's hair! But I let my humor vanish as I committed the name of his friend—Kuwabara Kazuma—to memory.

_Notes (Yr. 3): Absences (prolonged, due to illness) but no lapse in grades. Has set sights on Tokyo U., medical school or botany programs._

_Hair still too long; claims he keeps it uncut for religious purposes._

I sat back in my seat, frowning. What did all of this mean? He skipped school but stayed smart, hung out with delinquents but never got into trouble, and the obvious 'religious purposes' lie...

To my disappointment, none of the notes contained mention of the thing I was looking for.

Just who was I dealing with?

I kneaded my temples with my knuckles, not knowing what to think. Putting what I knew together with what the school knew only made things more muddled.

I flipped off the light and sat there, alone and silent, until I crawled into my bed and closed my eyes.

"It's up to you, Chiyo," I said in the dim stillness of my darkened room. The air conditioner kicked on, making me jump, but then I relaxed again.

"You're going to save me. I'm going to make you."

_

* * *

_

NOTES:

_Saiyuri needs saving? What? And why is she so damned obsessed with Kurama? To tell you the truth, we have only scraped the surface of Saiyuri's motives and character. She's almost... dare I say it? She's almost INSANE. But not quite. Certainly looks that way to Chiyo, though, what with making herself bleed from anger and such. _

_One of my Japanese friends said that her middle school in Tokyo kept very detailed records of all the students' lives, from deaths of family to illnesses to friendships. That's what I'm basing Chiyo's such complete (and stolen) write-ups on._

_The write-up on Shuichi is meant to reflect a bit of his YYH history. The scar is from Hiei during the Artifacts of Darkness case; Kuwabara's mention from the start of the Sensui arc. The many absences during his third year reflect his involvement with Yomi. _

_Thanks to all my reviewers! I'm happy to hear from all of you. =] Kaijin-san, oceanabyss, lilimon, , Rokkugoh, chocolateluvr13, LadyoftheGags, Zetsubel, and Foxgirl Ray! _


	3. Chapter 3: Plans & Plots

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 3:

"Plans and Plots"

* * *

I wanted to get started right away, of course, because the sooner I got Saiyuri out of my hair, the sooner I could pretend that none of this had ever happened.

The evening after I met with Saiyuri in Cafe de la Rue, I worked on my matches with the intensity of a high-grade fever, hoping to clear out my schedule for a few days (which I hoped would be enough time to get inside Minamino's head), and I succeeded. The Match Box yielded several pairs, I finally got two difficult clients a potential date, I weeded out everyone who didn't deserve to be matched with school idols (ten girls had submitted Minamino's name), and I put a few of the worst ones on my black list. I even managed to do all of that in time to finish my homework, read and commit to memory all of the information for a science test on Wednesday, and all of that coupled with getting to bed at a decent hour should have made me very happy.

It didn't.

I don't know why I couldn't fall asleep that night, satisfied with my work and knowing I had everything immediate taken care of. There was just this growing sense of unease—the feeling of _missing _something—rising beneath the tide of work-related closure, and when the silence of lying in the dark became unbearable I threw back the covers, scratched my chest at a vague itch I didn't really notice, and went to my desk.

The light flickered on with a hiss of burning filament as I sat down and opened up my files to the white section, intent on doing a little reading (not that I needed to see the page to remember what it said), but for some reason Minamino's file was gone. My mouth went dry; was someone stealing from me? Then I remembered that I had given it to Saiyuri as I left, but what was I getting so freaked out about? With a sigh I opened up my desk—a cheap one made of thin white wood and metal with a hollow body—and took out my old laptop. I then began to transcribe Minamino's file from memory, and when I was done I printed out the page, made a small sketch of his face in the upper right corner, and put it in my book.

Then I turned to Saiyuri's page.

The information was bland, of course. She had good grades, though not exceptional ones, and she was in no clubs to speak of. Her teachers called her quietly intelligent, but condescending. All of it rang true, but nothing else of note popped out at me except the fact that her only contact listed was her father. Her mother, said the file, was deceased.

I smiled to myself, though not because anything was funny. "You and I have more in common than I thought," I said to the portrait of Saiyuri I had drawn the day before. "My mom's dead to me, too."

It was only when I started to close the book that I saw something else of note:

The date.

"What the hell?" I said softly, looking at the numbers at the bottom of the file. It irked me to see that Saiyuri's file was from her freshman year, but since no one had ever submitted her name into my MatchBox, I had not thought to pay her attention or update her information.

_I knew I had been missing something,_ I thought as I turned the light out. _I'll get her sheet tomorrow. _

Sleep came much easier after that.

* * *

The TV was blaring an infomercial at full volume when I walked in and found Dad lying on the couch smelling of beer. A host of bottles littered the floor like potentially deadly mines, but I charged through them full speed, reveling in their loud glassy clinks as Dad twitched, moaned, and sat up, holding his head in his hands like it would break.

"Wake the hell up!" I snapped at him as I passed into the kitchen. I turned the TV off on my way.

"Kotori?" he called after me, sounding lost and alone and scared.

"No, Dad. It's Chiyo," I said, voice still biting as I pulled a protein shake out of the fridge. I downed it in four pulls and tossed another one to Dad, who had followed me. He was still too drunk to catch it, though: it bounced off his hands as they fluttered in the air, trying but failing to get coordinated.

I walked over to Dad and pushed him into one of the two chairs at the tiny table in the middle of our tiny kitchen, opened the shake once I rescued it from the dirty floor, and forced him to drink it. Some of the liquid spilled over his chin.

"If you're not sober by the time I come home, I'm kicking you out," I said harshly.

He blinked at me, spluttering, and said: "Kotori?"

I sighed. "No, Dad, Chiyo. Chi-yo. It's not that hard."

He blinked. "Can I have a beer, Kotori?"

I straightened up. Smiled like a cherub. "Sure."

He smiled as I walked over to the fridge, pulled out the mostly empty twenty-four box, and carried it over to him. His look of joy faded, however, when I threw the box onto the ground at full force and the bottles shattered inside the cardboard and liquid started to seep out of the seams.

"No beer," I snarled, kicking the box with each word. "No vodka, no whiskey, no sake, no gin, _no booze._ Do you hear me, Katsuya?"

The sound of his name brought some life back into his eyes, and he finally looked away from the wasted and sopping beer. "Chiyo?"

"Yeah, Dad," I said, tired. "Chiyo."

His eyes lingered on the ruined drinks. "Can... can I have some money?"

Because his intentions for that money were obvious, I said: "Nope."

"But..."

"Listen, you bastard," I said, putting my hands on the chair so I could get right up in my father's face. "If this place isn't spotless when I get back, if I can't see my face reflected in the fucking toilet seat, I am kicking you out. I pay the rent here. If you want booze so bad, go out and get a job so you can buy it yourself."

He—the grown man whose DNA I shared—started to cry. "I miss her," he said through hiccupps and sobs. Fat tears scored his dirty cheeks with cleanliness. "I miss her so much."

My heart about broke. "I miss her too, Dad," I said, throat feeling thick. "I miss her too. But you don't see me wallowing in self pity. Be a man and get _over _her."

"I'm," he sobbed, "sorry!" He curled in on himself, crying hard. "I'm a bad dad."

"No you're not," I said softly, and I put my arms around him. He clung to me like a drowning person, and I could feel his tears on my neck. "You're just sad. But it's been a year now, Dad—time to move on."

"Oh Kotori," he sobbed.

"Shhh," I said, soothing him.

"She might come, b-back," he said, pushing me away and smiling. Snot bubbled on his lip; childish hope lit up his drunken eyes. "She might."

"Yeah," I said, not believing it, "Mom might."

_But I won't hold my breath._

* * *

After I forced him, fully clothed, into the shower ("You stink, Dad—it's disgusting!") with the command to sober up or face the pain of eviction, I got dressed, put on my makeup, and went to school. I left him without any money so he couldn't buy booze ("There's food in the fridge."), but I did give him clean clothes and the classifieds, instructing him to circle or highlight at least three potential jobs before I got home. I'd make all the phone calls later.

Thinking about Dad depressed me, though, so as I walked the twenty blocks to get to school, I tried to redirect my focus onto Minamino.

Getting to know him would be tough, of course. The easiest ways would be to have a class with him (which I didn't) or to have to work on a project with him (which I couldn't) or to accidentally get locked in a boom closet with him (which I had no idea how to do). The other option was my tried and true method of observation (or stalking and reconnaisance, as Saiyuri put it), but Minamino was a smart one. He would notice if I suddenly started showing up wherever he went, so what the heck was I supposed to _do_?

A third option occured to me as I neared the school gates. It wasn't exactly my style, of course, but in this situation I had little other choice.

Going with that option, I waited around outside the shoe locker room, trying to appear casual as I texted nobody on my cellphone and leaned against the wall adjacent to the entrance. I was early, one of the first students to arrive, because I liked having some alone time and after school was devoted to matchmaking and Dad's slow rehabilitation.

The students began to trickle in, and all of them had to walk past me to get inside. I kept one surreptitious eye on the school gates that stood directly ahead of me, and eventually I caught a flash of red.

Minamino.

He strode through those gates at a brisk walk, but not one that made him look particularly hurried or too eager to learn, not like a nerd at all. His hair glimmered in the sunlight, as did his eyes, and when I saw him in the pink uniform I wanted to gag—he looked too damn good, so much prettier than I was, and that just about made me want to kill him.

Still, as soon as he walked past me I pushed off the wall and turned to follow, eyes locked on my cell phone as I stayed a good six feet behind, and I maneuvered to get a good view of his hands when he turned his locker combination. I committed the motions to memory in an instant, and when he opened the locker a stream of envelopes fell onto his shoes. He sighed, scooped them up, and exchanged them for the indoor shoes in his locker, not even sparing them a second glance. One of the letters actually tore as he shoved it out of sight, but he didn't even bat an eye.

His dismissive attitude made my teeth clench. Even if none of those girls (and maybe some boys) knew Minamino on a deep level, they had still had the guts to pour their hearts out in those letter! He had no right to treat their vulnerability with such indignity.

He went off to class after changing shoes (shoving his dirty outdoor ones into the mess of letters with a crackle of bending paper, no less), and all the girls who had been watching him at his locker followed in a giggling wave. That left me pretty much alone, but I still waited until just before the bell rang to walk up, look both ways, and use my precise memory to open up Minamino's locker.

Then I stole—or did I rescue?—all of his rejected letters.

* * *

I was not late to class, though I made it with only a few seconds to spare. My female teacher did not so much as glance at me, though, because she was young and pretty and a client of mine (hey, teachers need advice on love sometimes, too). As she began a lecture on Japanese poets, I very carefully opened all of Minamino's letters with a dab of acetone-based nailpolish remover from my kit, keeping the discarded envelopes in my bag as I put the letters themselves between the pages of the day's text book. Then I settled in to read.

Most of them were from girls, predictably, and most of them simply said that they were "confessing" their love and that they did not expect anything in return (which seemed stupid to me, but hey, whatever makes them happy). Those letters seemed more like a right of passage than sincere notes, so I stacked them all together at the back of the book and concentrated on the ones with more metaphorical meat.

Six letters were from various clubs: science club, math club, debate club, tennis club, baseball club, and, weirdly enough, gardening club. All of them bore thanks to Minamino for "filling in" for other club members when necessary, but they also begged him for a full time and formal membership on the grounds of "needing him."

_So he helps out a lot, _was my conclusion. _Nice guy, I guess._

A few more were personal notes from boys, and only one of them was romantic. The rest simply asked for "guidance as men," hoping to be taken under Minamino's oh-so-attractive wing. They wanted tips on getting girls, haircare, and all sorts of things I didn't know guys were in the habit of asking after.

_So he's a potential mentor. Oh-kay... weird, or cool? Homeoerotic for sure._

The sincere girl letters were the interesting ones, because it appeared as if several girls had actually seen beyond Minamino's professionally bland exterior. "Thank you for the advice," one of them wrote. "You are a wonderful listener and your encouragement gave me strength." Two more had similar stories that made it sound like Minamino had gone way out of his way to be nice or help them. Another had written a ten-page ode to Minamino's wonder and grace, one which was pretty generic and probably one she had recycled for every boy who struck her fancy.

One letter, though, was the most interesting of all.

_Dear Minamino-san, _wrote a girl who simply called herself 'Ren'._ I cannot thank you enough for what you did for me. I was so scared, wondering what was going to happen to me when I was attacked, but you saved my life. It was like you were a knight in shining armor or a super hero, materializing just in time to rescue me._

_I know you think I didn't see what you did, but I did. I ran, just like you told me to, but I didn't run far. I saw everything. _

_You were beautiful._

_Now that I know your secret, will you let me into your world? Will you explain it all to me? I felt that you were different from the day I saw you at school, and I knew fate would draw us together. I have liked you for a long time, Minamino-san, and now you don't have to shut me out anymore. We can be together, if you'll have me._

_I'm waiting for your answer._

I paused after reading it, staring at her simple hiragana signature in confusion. She sounded a bit psycho to me (the "you were beautiful" line was certainly creepy), but that hardly matter because _what the hell was she talking about_? Had Minamino rescued her from a mugger or something? But what was the 'secret' all about? Was he an undercover cop or something?

The note had been written by hand on pale green stationary with cute, bubbly penmanship, and when I flipped it over I saw that she had added a post script on the other side.

_Today after school, on the roof. I'll be waiting._

My lips pursed, wondering what to do. Minamino would not read this on his own (not unless forced), so Ren would be left waiting. But the letter seemed important, and not just in a romantic way—all the talk of secrets and rescue couldn't be casual—and if I went to go spy on the two of them it was possible I could learn something good...

And Saiyuri wanted to know his secrets, didn't she?

A plan formed, lighting up my head with the fireworks of possibility.

* * *

_NOTES:_

_One thing I like doing is taking a cliche and making it work. You see lots of "drunk parents who abuse their kids, the kids are scared of them or hate them, and the kids have to earn their rent themselves" scenarios in fanfics, and here we have a drunk parent, but Chiyo's dad is about as violent as a lamb who loves his daughter very much. And Chiyo isn't afraid of him in the slightest-she's afraid for him. She wants him to get better. She loves and pities him because he just can't handle the depression of her mother walking out._

_So in the end, I took the scenario I defined above and reversed all the emotions in it, and I hope it feels real and believable and DIFFERENT this way._

_Saiyuri's family is pretty interesting too, though... _

_Who is Ren, and what did she see? And what, exactly, is Chiyo's crazy plan? This chapter was short because I love the ending, but I promise that the next one will have a ton of—you guessed it—KURAMA to make up for it! =D He and Chiyo will finally interact, and Saiyuri... well, you'll see._

_Thank you SO MUCH, reviewers! I really value all your feedback, especially on the characters. PeaceY, oceanabyss, Zetsubel, Rokugh, Reclun, LadyoftheGags, eighteenyearsago, chocolateluvr13, Kaijin-san, DoilyRox, __Naitza-Kururugi, AFieRceBeaUty, akaMizu-chan, American Senpai, FoxgirlRay, colbub, ovenfreshh, heve-chan, Out-Of-Control-Authoress, Pirazz, j.d.y., and Panda-chan31 are all amazing people I would love to hug!_


	4. Chapter 4: Meetings & Mysteries

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 4:

"Meet-Ups & Mysteries"

* * *

I tried finding Saiyuri during lunch, and I looked hard, too—I checked the library, the science lab, the computer lab, but she was nowhere to be found, not even in the secluded places loner-nerds tend to hang around. It was like the girl had vanished, or maybe she hadn't even come to school? It hardly mattered, though, because the fact remained that she was gone, just _gone_, and I had no way to get her to approve my plan of action before I took the plunge.

Not that that stopped me, of course. When I thought about it, bending to her approval would have made my stomach turn.

Class A-1's representative (I knew her as Roma Hikari from my files; she was not one of my clients) approached me when I was only a few steps past the door, and she looked both bored and annoyed behind her oval eyeglasses and her crispy-looking black braids (seriously, she needed a hydrating conditioner, stat). She even had her student council button pinned onto her uniform tie, and I immediately pegged her as the goody-goody, I-take-myself-way-too-seriously nerd-type. She looked me up and down as I did the same to her, and then our eyes met.

"Yes?" she asked politely, voice bland but not the type to take shit from anyone.

I smiled because I had to. "I need to speak with Minamino."

She raised an eyebrow at my lack of honorifics, and I could tell from the way she swallowed, shifted on her feet, and gave me another appraising look that my apparent familiarity was noteworthy. "So does every other girl in this school," she said, and she didn't say _but you seem different because you didn't call him 'san' and I'm wondering why_, but I wasn't really listening or doing much to observe her unspoken cues because I had spotted _him_.

He, like everyone else in the class, was indulging his lunch hour, and he was doing so with a bento that looked homemade. He held a book open with one hand and used chopsticks with the other, barely glancing at his food as he scoured whatever text he had chosen for the day. As I watched, he swallowed a delicate mouthful of sashimi and turned the page with, of all things, his chopsticks, and he did it with the disconcerting dexterity of a surgeon.

"What?" I said, snapping out of it as the class-rep-girl said something else.

"I said," she said, "that I'm not supposed to allow girls in to see him unless he told me ahead of time. He'd get no peace otherwise." She didn't say (and didn't want to admit that): _Normally I would have turned you away without so much explanation, but the lack of a 'san' threw me off._

I smiled at her in sympathy, coming to the most obvious conclusion. "You like him, right?"

Her cheeks went pink; really, the girl would have been pretty if she ditched the glasses and did something about that hair. "Of course not!" she sputtered, "it's my duty as class representative to ensure—," but I reached out and patted her on the shoulder. I pulled two things out of my pocket with my other hand.

"Relax," I said in my best I'm-a-match-making-business-woman-all-adrip-with-sincerity voice. "He's a good looking, smart young man and you have class with him 24/7—it's only natural to like him, but you should know that I'm not one of his fangirls. I just found this in the hallway and wanted to return it." I held Ren's envelope—clearly addressed with "Minamino-san"—between my thumb and forefinger. Between my pinky and ring finger, however, I held a smaller card in dark blue. "I should also mention that he's totally not worth your time. Hasn't dated anyone in his entire life and doesn't really plan to, either. Here's my card."

Her eyes—showing a lot less hostility but a lot more confusion—darted around the room as she took the card, and then they stilled long enough for her to read what I had given her. "Matchmaking?" she said in disbelief.

"My name's Chiyo," I said pleasantly, and her mouth dropped open before snapping shut. "Heard of me?"

She nodded.

"My hours are on the card if you'd like to find someone worth your time. You're very pretty, and smart, too—you should branch out. Guys would love to date you."

She blushed again, but this time it was with pleasure because my flattery had worked.

"So can I see Minamino, Roma-san?" I asked, and I walked past her with a wink. She gaped after me, shocked that I'd known her name and not really sure how to handle me (not that I blamed her—very few people did), and I am not ashamed to admit that I took full advantage of that.

Her classmates all stared and murmured as I made a bee-line toward the lonely Minamino, but I just smiled at them all before sitting sideways in the desk in front of everyone's favorite red head (ugh, barf, much?). I put an elbow on his desk and pillowed my chin in that hand, looking at him with a pleasant expression, and when he heard my feet 'thunk' against the ground as I crossed my legs at the thigh... well, those green eyes flashed like stadium lights.

"Hi," I said, and smiled.

"May I help you?" he asked dryly, and his eyes flicked toward Roma-san, who was still standing by the door.

"Uh-huh," I said, cataloging his face and eyelashes and hair. His prettiness was even more apparent up close.

He stared at me, expectant, and didn't reply.

"Your mom make that?" I asked, glancing at his bento. It was neat, simple, yet tasty looking... not unlike Minamino, come to think of it. Or was Minamino simple at all? Saiyuri certainly didn't think so.

Speaking of which...

That's when I saw her. She was sitting two desks behind Minamino, alone in the back corner by the windows, and she was glaring at me with eyes like diamond filaments, or maybe shark skin. No wonder I had missed her earlier—she had been in her classroom the whole time, unobtrusive and elusive behind a textbook. Why hadn't I guessed as much?

"_I_ made it," Minamino said, and that drew my attention back to him. He was unamused. "Why are you here?"

"What, a girl can't have a little conversation from time to time?" I asked, all simpering and cute. "Such a pity. I'd heard you were one of the politer ones." I held out Ren's note. "Since you're so adverse to speaking, just take this and I'll take my leave."

His face went a bit softer. "I'm sorry," he said in a voice that was as rehearsed as a fourth-grade play, "but I do not accept confession letters."

My lips curled and my eyes widened, just as I wanted them to. "You think that _I_," I said, pointing at myself with the letter, "am confessing to _you_?" I pointed it at him, then rolled my eyes and shook my head. "As if! Are you so full of yourself that you think _every _girl with an envelope is confessing?"

I felt satisfied when I saw his eyes widen just the tiniest fraction, and I stood up. I continued speaking in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

"No, I am _not _confessing to you, Mr. Ego. You _dropped _this and I was _returning _it. Gosh, how vain can you get?"

"I apologize," he said.

I inspected my nails. "Don't. It's not like you even mean it."

He was not insulted by that, playing my taunts a lot more coolly than I had anticipated. "Very well." He held out his hand. "May I have it back, please?"

My tone changed to bright and cheerful in an instant. "Of course!" I chirped, and I held out the letter. I dropped it before he could reach it, and it fell to the floor. "Oops!"

He gave me a look that was not quite a glare, but not a look of kindness, either, and stood up to get the note.

"So who's Ren?" I asked.

Minamino froze, bent over so his hair almost brushed the ground, and I saw his face go as still as the grave he probably wanted to put me in. I snuck a glance at the book he had been reading and my brain memorized the open pages on sight, but I'd read the information later because he was straightening up very slowly and staring at me like I'd grown a second head.

"Why," he said, "do you ask?"

"She wrote that letter," I said. "Oh, don't give me that look, I didn't read the note on purpose. The envelope was torn open and the letter was halfway across the room." I shot a glance at Saiyuri; her glare had turned from livid to interested. "I found the letter first, by the shoe lockers, and I had to read it to figure out whose it was."

The entire explanation was a lie, of course. I had ripped the envelope and crumpled the letter myself before going into Minamino's classroom so the lie would hold its weight. I had also returned all of his discarded letters to his locker so it would look like I'd never been there. I even arranged them back into their original crumpled mess with my memory's snapshot as a guide.

When I plan things, you can bet your sweet ass I plan them well.

I smiled with my best impersonation of Saiyuri—AKA, I smiled scarily and took the opportunity to lecture the nearest sentient body. "Perhaps you shouldn't reject _all _your letters?" I suggested. "Read one or two, or maybe you could at least treat them a bit better? People pour their hearts out in confessions, and when you just discard things without reading them..." I trailed off, letting him fill the gaps for himself. "I mean, you look like a jerk when you leave a persons heartfelt letter all dirtied up on the floor, and then stuff like _this _happens."

"I will take your point into consideration," he said stiffly, and he sat back down. The letter disappeared between the pages of his book. "Thank you."

"No problem," I said, but he wasn't looking at me anymore. Instead, he was staring at his book without actually reading it, fingers white as they clenched the hardback cover.

Saiyuri and I exchanged a glance over his unknowing head. She gave me a curt nod.

I didn't return the gesture—I just left.

* * *

My notes on the incident (notes I sent via text message to Saiyuri a few seconds after I left the room and settled in to eat my own lunch) ran as follows: "Cool in a crisis, not in the habit of backing down, uses politeness to get his way, does not respond to goading. Uses the class rep's crush as a means of practically enslaving her. Also, vain. Expects all girls to fawn over him, but will probably handle his love notes better in future thanks to yours truly."

She responded in less than a minute: "What was in that letter?"

I decided to string her along for a bit. "Was reading a book on herbal remedies, funnily enough. The page was on cumin seeds & rosemary, which are used to treat amnesia. He's into gardening? The gardening club is interested in him, too. Coincidence?"

But Saiyuri was not amused. "Library. NOW."

"OK. C ya," was my quick (albeit reluctant) response, so I bolted the rest of my steamed bun and glanced at the clock. There was still a good fifteen minutes left of lunch, though I had hoped to see a few clients...

_Think of the big picture, _I told myself as I power-walked to the library._ Get Saiyuri out of the way. When you have a frog to swallow, swallow the biggest one first. Or is she a shark? Aye, me._

Our school has a great library, one which I rarely use or even _want _to use. I'd rather go shopping, or work on my nails, or deal with Dad, but today I had little choice and Saiyuri was waiting for me at the entrance. She approached as soon as I came into view, but there were people around so I walked right past her without so much as a glance and dove between the stacks of books. She followed, and luckily no one seemed to notice.

"I don't want to be seen with you," I hissed once we were far enough away from civilization. Her stringy black hair made me want to attack her with body-boosting shampoo.

She seemed genuinely surprised. "Why not?"

"Because you're a geek!" I said, and a librarian poked her head around a bookshelf so she could shush us. I bowed at her in apology, grabbed Saiyuri by the wrist, and dragged her toward the study rooms at the back of the library. I found the first empty one and shoved (well, tried to shove) her inside. She was much taller than me.

"A geek?" she asked, turning to face me as I leaned against the room's door.

"Yeah, and I'm not, so I don't want to go damaging my reputation by hanging out with you," I said, layering my words with regret. "It's nothing against you, it's just—" I stopped. My next words were more honest in both content and tone. "Well, it is you. I don't like you."

"And I don't like you either," she said without a trace of regret.

"Good!" I snapped. "But now that that's settled, let's get down to business."

"What was in that letter?" she demanded, back on track once more. "I did not approve a direct approach."

I shook my head. "Couldn't find you. Had to act fast."

"You could have texted me."

"Didn't have time to explain it all in a text." Feeling rushed, I explained what I had done that morning: "I broke into Minamino's locker after I saw him get a ton of love letters. I was hoping they would give me insight to his character or something, but they were mostly just crappy confessions. Really, those girls should all come see me, they totally lacked style, not to mention originality, and—"

"Chiyo," Saiyuri said in a low voice, and I stopped mid sentence.

"The one I gave him was the most interesting," I said, and then I recited the letter's contents from memory.

As I spoke, Saiyuri's face went from tense and drawn to—dare I say it?—open with a wonder so childlike I was afraid she'd start talking in toddler-speak. It was like clouds of doubt and frustration had been chased away, but when the letter drew to a close those clouds came swarming back in.

"And that's it?" she asked, all traces of amazement having vanished like smoke.

"Yeah." I added: "I can write out a copy for you, if you'd like. I can even mimic Ren's handwriting and spelling errors."

"Do it," was the response. "I assume you have a plan?"

"You know me too well. Wanna hear it?"

"Yes."

"Good." I explained it to her, and when I was done she pursed her lips.

"It's simple, and therefore it's hard to botch," she said, "but there's only room for one of us."

I shrugged. "So it's you or me, and honestly I think I'd fit better. You're pretty tall."

She looked at her hands, which were clenched together over the fall of her skirt. "I would have wanted you to do it anyway," she said, and there was something there that I wasn't getting—was that relief in her voice? "Call me as soon as it's over."

"I will," I said, and I opened the door to leave. But then a hand darted over my shoulder and pushed the door shut, and I had to turn to face Saiyuri.

"Who is Ren?" she asked.

My brow furrowed. "That's what's bugging me about this. There are no female Rens at this school, so it's either a nickname or a boy, and that handwriting was as girly as it gets."

Saiyuri inhaled sharply. "I would like to speak with her," she said, but I could only shake my head.

"I can't help you, not until I figure out who Ren is. But I'll call you as soon as I see her."

Saiyuri nodded. "Yes. Do that." Her eyes bored into mine with silver fire, and I shivered beneath their intensity—something in her gaze spoke of an unconquerable drive, one which I couldn't match. "Now go."

I opened the door, but when she made no move to leave I said: "Class is starting soon."

She turned away, head bowed. "I need to be alone," she said.

I started to shut the door again, the metal knob slipping from my fingers, but at the sound of creaking hinges she snapped: "Leave me!" Something in her voice told me that a rebellion would be met with violence, or at least something just as bad, and it scared me enough to make my mouth go dry.

I fled.

* * *

Since ground space is a precious commodity in crowded places like Japan, vertical space is typically utilized to the fullest. Most buildings have rooftops that can be used as an extension of the building, and our highschool had the same idea when they built a shoulder-high wall around the roof for safety. The gardening club has a greenhouse up there, where the plants can get a lot of sun, and the tea ceremony club often has little get-togethers up there when the weather is nice.

I like using it too sometimes, and when I faked sick during my last class of the day I didn't go to the nurses office. Instead, I made a beeline for the roof.

"He still in class?" I texted Saiyuri as I climbed the stairs.

"Yes," she replied.

I opened the door to the outside and breathed the fresh air with relish. "I'm up," I said.

She texted: "HIDE."

I stared at the message in disbelief (there was a full half hour until school ended!), and then I darted for the greenhouse.

The greenhouse is roughly ten by twenty feet, made of four-foot-square clear tiles of green glass on the roof and the walls. The tiles adjacent to the ground were opaque gray, as was the door to the inside, and as I opened the door I noticed a taped-up note saying: "Garden Club is canceled for the next week. The seeds are germinating."

"Dunno what that means," I said cheerfully, and I plunged into the hot and humid greenhouse. Two tiers of plant-holding-shelves were on every wall, and a huge two-tiered table in the middle of the room had pots and planter boxes all over it. Hanging vines and overgrown pots provided me with much cover, and I hid on the opposite side of the greenhouse as the door. Then I crouched behind the table and waited.

Two minutes passed, and then the door opened. I almost cried out in surprise, and as I heard a foot strike the cement floor I looked around for a new hiding place. A few placards bearing names of plants (mint, rosemary, creeping ivy) bore into my eyes and memory, and I saw that the space beneath the shelves on the wall was hollow.

So, I scooted into it. The ivy mentioned above covered my spot completely.

The shoes—Minamino's shoes, I was sure of it—crossed the greenhouse slowly, and I held my breath as he walked the isles, stopping at every planter box and pot so he could observe its contents. The ivy had enough spaces in between its strands to allow me to see the boy's pink-covered calves and feet; I tracked his progress with a pounding heart. My cell phone felt slick and heavy in my sweaty hands, and then it buzzed.

I flinched, sure he had heard the phone, but he did not come my way. I carefully flipped open my phone to read Saiyuri's message: "Did he see you?"

"No," I replied. "Thanks 4 the warning."

A pause, and then: "Sarcasm?"

I would have laughed out loud had the situation not been so tense. "No. Did u just make a joke?"

"No."

"Oh. It was funny." When she did not reply, I said: "Hiding under table in greenhouse. Legs cramping. He's looking at plants. I hope they don't meet up in here."

I closed the phone, watching as Minamino drew closer... closer... closer. I held my breath, praying Saiyuri didn't text me, because he soon came to stand and stop directly in front of my hiding place.

_Please don't hear me, _I thought. _Please, please, please..._

Luckily, he didn't. All I heard was a few rustles of leaf on leaf, and then a snap.

"This will do," he said in a voice soft enough to scare me half to death, and he walked out of the greenhouse without a pause.

I breathed a sigh of intense relief as the door fell shut behind him, and then I leg my legs stretch outside of the ivy curtain. My cellphone buzzed. I opened it.

"Is he still there?"

I crawled out from under the shelf and peered out of the greenhouse over a row of plants, and the first thing I saw was Minamino's riotous mass of hair. He was leaning against the wall right in front of me, uniform smooshed against the glass with wrinkles and whorls of compressed fabric.

I ducked back down. Texted: "He's right outside. 1 noise 2 many and I'm toast."

"Class ends soon. Hold on just a little while longer."

"K. Know any jokes 2 pass the time, oh funny 1?"

Saiyuri did not answer.

The minutes passed with aching slowness. I checked to see if he was still there a few more times, and the only noteworthy thing he did was cross the roof so he could look over the ledge and down into the school courtyard. Luckily his back was to me, allowing me to stand up and do a few stretches, and then I did what I had been planning on all along: I carefully and quietly opened one of the vents at the top of the greenhouse. A breeze and all the sounds from the nearby street started to drift inside.

_Eavesdropping? Why yes, it _will _be easy, thank you_, I thought as I hid myself again. _This is going smoothly._

The bell rang not long after. I hid near the open vent and began blotting the day-old polish off my nails. Saiyuri texted: "Good luck."

I texted with acetone-smeared fingers: "I don't believe in it."

That's when Kara Sugoi arrived.

* * *

_NOTES:_

_I really enjoyed writing Chiyo's text messages, though the idea to write them with a bit of chatspeak was a friend's idea. She's been reading this and said, once I showed her the chapter: "I love the valley girl bits in Chiyo's chapters, but her quick texts at the end could show it off, too! What valley girl writes things out in a text she sends on the fly?" So, we have 1s and 2s and Us and s and such. Fuuuun. (Actually, chatspeak in texts annoys me but hey, it's in Chiyo's personality.)_

_We're getting some more Saiyuri in the next chapter, as it will be from her perspective. But where does that leave Chiyo? And why am I so obsessed with cliffhangers? WHY? You will all start hating me for it if I'm not careful. =[_

_Anywho, I had a HUGE inspiration burst for this story, so look forward to a bunch of quick-post chapters._

_Thanks so much to those who reviewed! This is one of my favorite stories at the moment, so I'm stoked to share it with you. =D Out-Of-Control-Authoress, Panda-chan31, Kaijin-san, Rokkugoh, colbub, American Senpai, chocolateluvr13, Doily Rox, AkaMizu-chan, Zoey24!_


	5. Chapter 5: Shrinks & Secrets

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 05:

"Secrets & Shrinks"

* * *

I was to walk directly to the front gates, get into the car, and not look back.

I did everything but the last.

Chiyo was up there, totally alone and totally unknowing. That being the case, I could not help but sneak a glance at the roof when I exited the school. She was in greater danger than she had ever guessed, and even though I did not like the girl I still did not want her to end up like...

Those thoughts were not good ones. I pushed them away with a shudder, and then I remembered what Father had told me a long time ago. It had been over a game of chess, as I recalled.

_"One must be willing to sacrifice a pawn for the advancement of a greater goal," _he had said, dark eyes flashing as I skirted around the inconsequential sacrifice of a single pawn. He had been able to read me even then. _"If you do not have the stomach for sacrifice, expect to be sacrificed yourself."_

Despite my own misgivings, I felt he had a point.

The black car idled at the curb like a crouched panther, growling in a voice of velvet, and when I neared it the driver jumped out, rounded the car, and opened the door. I climbed in amid the stares of my classmates, many of whom did not likely know my name.

_We _must _live in a cruel world, _I mused_, when the only thing that gets you noticed is the quality of your car._

The drive was a silent one. I sat alone in the back seat, watching the world flash by through tinted windows, and the only time the driver addressed me was to ask if I was comfortable with the air conditioner. I told him yes and ignored him afterward, as was proper and as my father had taught me, and when we arrived at a slick skyscraper a half hour later I exited the car without acknowledging his presence. He then handed the car off to a valet, escorted me through wide glass doors and a marble-covered atrium, past a fountain wrought with copper and silver, and into a large, mirror-paneled elevator. He punched the appropriate button without being asked. I took note of it. I would have to mention such prompt service to Father.

"We are early, Omura-san," the driver said as the car began to rise. His patent leather cap shadowed his eyes; his white gloves were pristine.

"So?" I said curtly, and the doors pinged open.

_I take it back, _I thought as I led the way into a large room filled with leather chairs, soft lighting, and the aroma of old cigars. _He talks too much._

I didn't like the plush place. The general sense of opulence reminded me far too much of home, but the woman behind the front desk possessed much more warmth, even if that warmth was forced. She smiled brightly and with far too many teeth when I approached, and she said: "Omura-san, the doctor will be with you shortly. May I get you a drink while you wait?"

"No," I replied, and I turned smartly on my heel. A squeak of leather cushion marked the moment I sat down, and on impulse I reached for my schoolbag, only to realize I had left it in the car. I had been wanting to contact Chiyo.

I looked to the driver, who was standing by the wall a few feet away. "I left my bag in the car. Go get it."

He seemed uncertain. "I am not to leave you alone, Omura-san," he said, and my eyes narrowed.

"You would disobey my direct order?" I said in a voice schooled to be both pleasant and dangerous, and he paled. He knew that look; doubtless, he had heard of others getting it from my father and getting fired as a result.

"No, Omura-san," he said, and he took off at a walk that was almost-but not quite-a run. It didn't take him long to get the bag and he made a valiant effort to not look like he was completely out of breath (he was) when he returned, but I didn't spare him a second glance as I tore open the bag and took out my cellular phone.

The screen lit up when I pressed a button. Black words proclaimed: 1 New Message

My breathing hitched and my thumb darted toward the 'open immediately' tab, but before the screen could load a voice said: "Ah, Saiyuri-chan. You're early."

My temper flared as I looked into the face of a beautiful older woman dressed in office chic. She had grey hair pulled into a tight chignon, perfect lips, expressive black eyes, and enough wrinkles to make her seem wise despite the Botox she most assuredly used in her neck and hands, but I didn't care. Not only had she interrupted me, she had also referred to me in a manner unfitting for my station, and that was not something I tended to forgive.

But alas, tact has its place and time, and I of all people knew that this woman was not one to be trifled with.

As cliché as it sounds, she held my fate in her hands.

"Come with me," she said, smiling kindly, and I forced myself to stop glaring and stand up. I snapped my phone shut, the message left open but unread, and I followed her across the room and through a large wooden door. The driver stayed behind.

Her office was much smaller than the waiting room, but it was no less rich. Plaques and pictures coated the walls with fine frames, proclaiming her—Doctor Margaret Chen, as it were—as both brilliant, influential, and a member of the closest circles of the affluent and rich. An American by birth but Chinese by ethnicity, she was the possessor of a doctorate in psychiatry from Oxford University; she graduated top of her class and with the highest honors available, so it was no wonder Father had chosen her as my personal therapist.

She sat down in a low leather chair in front of her desk, foregoing the one behind the massive workplace so she would seem less intimidating. For all my dislike of everything she stood for, I appreciated the gesture. She was nothing if not kind, though there was the definite presence of cold calculation behind each of her seemingly thoughtless gestures. Father had taught me more than enough to detect what lat beneath.

"So," she said as I lay down on the client's couch. She sat at my head, just out of sight but close enough for me to hear her as she shifted in her seat. "How was your week?"

"Pleasant," I replied. "And yours?"

"Oh, it was pleasant as well. Busy, though. Did you do anything fun?"

We talked about nothing for a few minutes, going over the typical trivial details neither she nor I were truly interested in. How much I'd seen Father lately, what I was doing in school, my good grades, had I picked up any hobbies lately—I told her 'no' about that last one, partially because it was true and partially because I had been watching Chiyo too much to pick one up, not like Dr. Chen had told me when I saw her the week before.

"I mean, even reading a chapter of a novel a night is hobby enough for me," she said when she heard me say I lacked one. "Or just take a walk in the evenings, when it's cool. You do need more exercise, anyway."

I snorted. "A walk? When Father assigns bodyguards to pose as janitors to keep me safe at school?"

Dr. Chen, to her credit, sympathized. "Ah. You figured it out, I see."

I snorted again. "It wasn't hard. Things seemed to break too much in our classroom to be random, and very few handymen carry Glocks."

"I'll tell them to downgrade for secrecy's sake," she joked, and then she turned more serious. "It must be hard to foster friendships when your leash is so short."

I didn't say anything.

"But then again," she said, and her next words were exactly as I expected: "your short leash might be a good thing, considering what put you here with me in the first place. Your father has your best interests at heart."

I nodded. I didn't say: _The best interests of his little 'business,' you mean._

But Dr. Chen couldn't see my face, and therefore she did not see the shadow cross my narrow eyes. "That reminds me—your father called me Sunday afternoon."

My pulse jumped. "Did he?"

"Yes. Apparently that leash we were discussing is just about the perfect length—"

_Oh no,_ I thought.

"—because he told me that you met a friend for coffee Sunday morning."

"Yes," I said hollowly. The words sounded forced even to me. "That's right. I met a _friend_."

"I think it's wonderful," said Dr. Chen. "Your father did, too."

"Did he?"

"Of course. You've never had a friend your own age before, and it's a wonderful step in just the right direction."

I bit my lip, thinking hard, and every word of my reply was measured. "You don't think _he'll_ scare her off, do you?" There was no need to clarify who 'he' was.

She laughed. She had a pretty laugh. "Oh, no. He might look into her the way he looks into anyone you get close to, but I think he'll stay well enough away. In fact, I told him that he was to interfere with you and Chiyo as little as possible and he agreed—"

My tone was sharp, but I didn't care. "You know her name?"

She hesitated. I waited. Then: "He may have already looked into her. But he was pleased by her background. Apparently she's a level-headed girl with good grades and a booming business sense, even if her family is a little… unconventional."

"Is it now?"

"Of course, but since you two are friends I assume that you know about all that already," she said. I didn't, but she wasn't supposed to know that so I let the opportunity to learn more about Chiyo pass me by. "And we're not here to talk about Chiyo, as exciting as it is to hear she's your friend."

"He's taken note of her business? Is Father going to try to recruit her?" I pressed.

"Of course not!" said Dr. Chen. There was actual shock in her voice; she wasn't pretending to be ignorant of my Father's job. "He wouldn't recruit a highschooler."

"She'll graduate this year."

"I still don't think he'd go for her," she said patiently. "But enough of that. His only concern is the _why_ of your friendship."

My blood went colder than a January midnight. _Does he know? _I thought as my mouth went dry. _I was so careful to check my clothes and the café for wires, but if he got to Chiyo first—_

"She's a matchmaker," said Dr. Chen, and my breathing eased. "And even though she's a teen, she takes on adults, too. Some professionals are seeking to apprentice her, though reports say she has little to learn and could start a successful _omiai_ business right now, if she wished. So of course your father jumped to the obvious conclusion."

The 'obvious' conclusion eluded me. "Which is?" I asked when Dr. Chen did not go on.

She chuckled. "Well, of _course_ he thinks you like a boy at school. So who is it?"

I would have laughed in her face had she not been the one who could make or break my entire mission. I was certainly interested in a boy, though not in a way she would have liked to hear, and so all I did was shrug. Not giving an answer was just as good—if not better—than giving a potentially fallible lie.

She left the issue alone, thankfully. "Well, if you ever decide youlike a boy, don't be afraid to come to me about it. You have my number, after all."

"Yes."

"Good!" I heard her stand up, and I sat up as well. She was straightening her pencil skirt when I turned to face her. "Now, our session is just about over, and I have to say that I love the new Saiyuri. I take it you've been adhering to my medication regimen?"

I smiled at her, nodding as I thought about the pills I cheeked, concealed, and flushed down the toilet every day at school. They made me fuzzy and nauseas and too cheerful to be healthy. Even when forced to swallow when Father watched me on the rare occasions we had dinner together, I shoved a finger down my throat to get the pills back up in the secrecy of my own bathroom.

Dr. Chen would never know that if I could help it, though.

"I thought so," she said as I stood next to her. We were precisely the same height, though she was wearing smart high heels that made her seem taller. "Your father reported that you hadn't had an episode since the incident. Is this true?"

"Very," I said. In my mind it was the absolute truth, though is hers it was probably anything but, and when I thought of that I realized I wanted to slap that bitch of a psychiatrist across the mouth.

_Episodes_, they called them. Feh. None of them—not Father, not the well meaning Dr. Chen, not any of the doctors or orderlies who I'd hit, scratched, and bit as they bundled me into the back of a padded van full of sedatives and needles and restraints—knew what the _fuck_ they were talking about.

She beamed, oblivious to my inner monologue. "Wonderful," she said, and she opened the door for me. "Your rehabilitation worked wonders, but do keep to that medication. You seem much more relaxed these days."

Despite my inner anger, I played along. "It's been easier to think since you cleared out my head," I replied, and her beam only increased.

We bid each other goodbye, at least until next week when we'd see each other again, and I nodded to the receptionist on the way out. My driver followed, and I could see the rumple of the shoulder holster hidden beneath his uniform jacket. _Not just a bumbling driver, then,_ I thought as he led me to the elevator and scanned the hallway we waited in with eyes that saw too much._ I'll have to hold my tongue in front of Father, after all._

But even despite the eagle eyes, my bodyguard didn't catch me looking at my cellphone during the long trip down. The message only contained two words—or, more precisely, it contained one name.

"Kara Sugoi," it read.

I replied: "What happened?"

But Chiyo did not answer me. It took her until we pulled past the gates surrounding the boundaries of my home's property for her to simply say: "Tomorrow."

"No," was my immediate response. "NOW."

"Can't," she replied. "Turning off my phone. Bye."

And no matter what I said to her after that—not threats to tell people about the toes she would never let anyone see, ever, nor promises to cut her pay and frame her for check fraud—would get her to answer.

_She really did turn off her phone,_ I thought in amazement as we finished coasting down the paper-smooth stone path. A butler dashed out of the mansion just as we pulled up, and the car had barely finished stopping when the door popped open. I crawled out, handing my school bag to the butler as I pocketed my useless cellphone, and I was about to tell him to make me something to eat when I froze, staring at the massive wooden doors at the top of my home's marble entry steps.

"Saiyuri," said my father. "Welcome home."

* * *

Maids rushed me to my room to dress for dinner. They stripped off my uniform and shoved me into a high-necked dress with full sleeves (Father hated excess skin, even though the weather was warm), and then they rushed me back out of the room with just as much speed. It was only when we neared the informal dining room that they slowed down to a stately walk, and they did not accompany me into the candlelit room that smelled like heady wine and rare meats. I had to take the long walk past Father's chair at the head of my table on my own.

The table was built for at least twenty people, but the places had been set on opposite ends. Father said nothing as I passed him and dozens of empty spots to reach my setting, and an unobtrusive waiter dressed in a smart suit pulled out my chair so I could sit without much effort. There was no food waiting for me, but no sooner had I realized this that Father clapped his hands and in paraded a troop of waiters with our first course.

We ate soup, salad, cheese, fruit, and palate-cleansing sorbet in total silence. It was only when they brought out the main course—lobster baked in white wine sauce—that Father said: "I spoke with Dr. Chen."

"Oh?" I said, tasting the lobster. It was perfect, just like everything else in my father's kingdom.

"You're not taking your medication."

I froze, eyes flicking up to meet his. Grey eyes—a perfect mirror of my own, or so I'm often told—held little warmth. None, actually. It was quite a change after speaking so long with Margaret Chen.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

"You nodded," he said. "You speak when you tell the truth." He leaned forward, forearms on the tabletop. His words came out like a snake's hiss. "Don't think you can outwit me, Saiyuri."

"I don't," I said, and he motioned to one of the waiters. The man came forward with a small porcelain dish, which he set at my elbow.

On it was a small white pill.

"Take it where I can see," Father said, and since I had little choice in the matter I put it in my mouth. But when I reached for my wineglass, hoping to palm the thing while the glass distracted him, Father said: "No. Swallow it, then show me your mouth."

I put the glass down, hating the way the chalky, bitter oval made my tongue shrivel and writhe against my teeth. Opening my mouth was the worst possible defeat.

Father settled back against his chair. "Good," he said. "Now you may drink."

I did.

"And a maid will keep you company tonight. So you don't vomit it back up like you've been doing."

I did not let my temper show. "I have not been doing that," I said blandly, and Father gave me a cruel smile.

"I am your father, Saiyuri," he said. "You put on a good show, but you can never, _ever_ fool me."

"No, sir," I said.

I thought: But you can never, _ever_ keep me from trying.

_

* * *

_

NOTES (some of this is actually important, by the way ;-P):

_I mentioned omiai in this chapter. The word "miai" literally means "looking at one another"; basically, two people who are looking to get married submit their information (physical as well as familial, ancestral, and economic) to a matchmaker, who arranges a meeting between the two based on compatibility. Social class plays a large role in the matching/selection process. It's fallen out of favor in recent years as the popularity of finding romantic love increases, but ten to thirty percent of marriages in Japan today are still reached via omiai meetings. _

_When I started this chapter, I had Dr. Chen's personality set in my head as sneering, manipulative, and basically evil extension of Saiyuri's father. However, as I wrote she changed. She morphed from a complete bitch to a smiling giver of somewhat calculated benevolence. She's not 100% evil anymore, thank whoever's listening, but I am not going to tell y'all that she's 100% good, either. _

_AND WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO CHIYO?_

_Also, several people brought up how they weren't convinced that Kurama didn't notice Chiyo hiding under the table in the greenhouse. I have two things to mention about that._

_THING # 1: Whoever said he DIDN'T notice her? Oh ho ho, WTF?_

_THING # 2: My views on Kurama's physiology seem to be vastly different from most peoples' (I'm thinking I'm less seriously intelligent than you guys… wah!). Here are my weird and probably dumb thoughts. First, he was born into a 100% human body, and it is my opinion that he does not retain very many demonic characteristics when he's just puttering about his daily life as Minamino Shuichi. I think that his more demonic traits—traits like heightened senses—would only come out in full force when he's consciously accessing them as _Kurama_. Second, Chiyo's a human with no spiritual pressure whatsoever, so while he's just being Shuichi I doubt she'd register on his radar. Hope that cleared something up? Anything? Nothing?_

_I'm gonna go hide in a corner now… (*Graph runs off with her laptop to go write another chapter of Saiyuri and "Speak", which she really needs to update*)_

_Many thanks to my reviewers, all of whom are far too good to this poor soul. And they are: DoilyRox, oceanabyss, LadyoftheGags, AkaMizu-chan, j.d.y., chocolateluvr13, Out-Of-Control-Authoress, Zetsubel (this enough Saiyuri for ya? =P), American Senpai, heve-chan, Kaijin-san, dumbrat, T., Reclun, Hadley-sensei, and Naitza-Kururugi!_


	6. Chapter 6: Hope & Haze, WARNING

WARNING:

This chapter contains emotional and physical torture. If such things offend, disturb, or scare you, I would suggest you only read up until my next warning label.

* * *

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 06:

"Hope & Haze"

* * *

I texted her ("What happened?") as soon as I was dropped off at the school gates, feeling fuzzy around the edges as the pill that had accompanied my breakfast kicked in. It took more willpower than it should have to remember what it was I wanted to know from Chiyo, exactly, and as I shoved a finger down my throat in the privacy of a school lavatory—Father couldn't follow me in there, at least—I prayed to a god I didn't really believe in that my body hadn't metabolized too much medicine yet.

Chiyo did not answer my message right away. Or, I didn't notice her reply until just before lunch. Either way I was scrambling to meet her in the same study room we had met in the day before, as per her reply's instructions, and when I at last managed to find it despite my wandering mind and languorous body, I found my hands too weak to even grasp the doorknob.

Luckily, however, I had beaten Chiyo to the punch. She came up behind me without a word and pushed the door open, raising an eyebrow at my limp hands but choosing not to say a word. I followed her inside, watching through a barrage of blinks as she pulled a packaged melon bread out of her schoolbag and set it on the room's only desk. Then she sat down and unwrapped her lunch. Her first bite was vicious.

I sat down across from her, feeling woozy as I watched her glossed mouth worked around her food.

"So," I said, and she gave me a sharp look. She tore off more bread with her teeth. "So, yesterday…"

"I don't want to talk about it," she said bluntly. "I'm not sure what I saw. Until I _am_ sure, I'm keeping my mouth shut."

I distantly remembered why those words seemed so important. "I want to know what happened," I said, fighting the sleepiness that was suddenly creeping over my brain.

Her expression went from sullen to angry in a second, hand pausing in its mission to lift her lunch to her mouth. "I am not talking about it," she hissed, eyes almost glowing with hatred as she put the bread to her lips.

"Who was…" It took me too long to remember the name. "Kara. Kara Sugoi. Who is that?"

At this, Chiyo sighed and put down her bread for good. "She. Kara Sugoi is a _she_, and _she_ is a second years in class six." Her eyes darted to the side before she admitted: "She's also the mysterious Ren, for what it's worth."

I blamed my memory lapse—Ren? Who?—on my medication. "Why does she call herself that?" I asked slowly.

Chiyo examined her nails and adopted the tone of an informative teacher for her next few lines. "In English, a 'wren' is a type of bird. It also happens to be a common Japanese name." One perfectly manicured fingernail glided over the table before her. "Now, if you spell out the name 'Kara Sugoi' in hiragana, you get the characters ka-ra-su-go-i. Take the first three and you just have 'karasu,' which is a what, class?"

"A bird… a crow," I managed to mumble.

Chiyo nodded, then shrugged. "Even though a wren and a crow aren't the same bird by a long shot, the pun is still kind of there if you stand on a chair and squint a bit. Sugoi-san isn't too bright, though, so I shouldn't have expected much." Her eyes pinned me in place. "Are you gonna go talk to her?"

"… yes," I said after thinking about it. "I will."

Chiyo snorted. "Yeah, good luck."

"What," I said, "is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Chiyo said innocently. She stood up and grabbed her bread off the desk. "Now leave me alone."

"But what are you going to do now?" I said stupidly as she walked past.

She stopped, hand on the doorknob. Over her shoulder, one brown eye glared like a snake's. I could practically hear a warning rattle shaking my ears like gunshot.

"You just leave that to me," she said, sweetness coating a hidden venom. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it. I'll get what you want and more just as soon as I find a way."

A thick brown braid swished as she left, the door shutting behind her with a slam. I sank into her abandoned chair, feeling nauseous and weak like some sort of newborn. I would have gone after her, made her talk, threatened and manipulated and squeezed her until she spilled every last thing she had seen, but the meds slurred my mind so much that I could hardly even think of what to say, much less say it with the aggression I needed to command.

Chiyo (for today, at least) had the upper hand.

* * *

_Class six_, I thought to myself as I stumbled along the hallway. _Class six, class six… there!_

I had left the study room to spend the rest of lunch making my slow way toward Kara Sugoi's classroom. With the mantra of _class six, class_ six repeating in my head so I would not forget my destination, I walked with shuffling steps and a hand against the wall, and the class representative met me at the door. I guess I was hard to overlook with my head hung low and my stooped shoulders—more than once I had been likened to the character 'Samara' from 'The Ring', but I had never seen it so I didn't know how accurate that comparison was.

"Yes?" he asked me. He was one of those popular-looking boys who had likely taken the role of class rep just because he was the only one brave enough to do it, and had I been at my full strength I could have handled him in a heartbeat. As it was, I just stared at him like a halfwit until he said: "Do you need something?"

"Sugoi-san," I blurted, and he raised an eyebrow. "I need to speak with Kara Sugoi-san."

"Is she expecting you?" he pressed. I could only shake my head. "Then you can't come in."

"Somethin' wrong?" said a voice.

I turned to find three girls—all with bleached hair, tanned skin, and flower jewelry—standing behind me. The middle one was the tallest; a lollipop bobbed between her perfectly glossed lips.

"I'm looking for Sugoi-san," I said slowly.

"Well, ya found her," was the tall one's curt reply. Thickly lashed black eyes were unamused. "Whaddaya want?"

Not thinking clearly, I reached out a hand so I could lead her away by the elbow. She reacted, however, by twisting out of my grip.

"Don't touch me," she snapped.

"I'm your senpai," I said mildly. "So please, let's do this in private."

After a moment's hesitation she waved her two clones away. The class rep floundered where he stood, not knowing what to do, and I spared him a pitying look as Sugoi and I walked away down the hall. Eventually we were far enough along to constitute some privacy, and we turned to face each other.

"So what's up?"

The words came out like vomit. "What happened between you and Minamino yesterday?"

Sugoi's reaction was not a curious one. Still, it was not what I expected. She just raised an eyebrow, rolled her lollipop between her teeth, and then pulled it out of her mouth.

"Yesterday?" she replied, using her sucker to punctuate the air. "I haven't spoken to him in weeks."

I froze.

_Good luck,_ Chiyo had said, laughing. Her eyes had been alight with mischief when she told me that her words meant nothing. _Good luck._

Was this what she meant?

"But… you wrote him a letter," I said lamely.

Her eyebrow rose even higher, if that's possible. "Dude, I don't _do_ confessions. I'm not some stupid fangirl."

I gaped at her, then stuttered: "You are _Ren_, aren't you?"

"That's what my _friends_ call me," was her sneering reply. "Dunno how _you'd_ know that, though." She rolled her eyes, flipped her hair, and stepped past me. "Now beat it. Senpai or not, I'm tired of your shit. Talk to me again and I'll beat the crap outta you."

I watched her go in silent disbelief.

What had Chiyo _seen_ on that rooftop?

* * *

WARNING: The following contains graphic mental torture.

* * *

Chiyo did not reply to my texted demands of further explanation, and I did not stop trying to reach her until I was bundled into the back of my family's sleek black car after school. By then I was just too tired to move my fingers over the phone's small keys, and as the vehicle bore me away on tires that whispered like sleep and dreams, I closed my eyes and napped.

My dreams were strange ones. In them, an image of my father—surely it wasn't him, with that radiant smile and those kind eyes—danced with me across a marble floor, looking handsome and young with his hair tumbling into his eyes and his straight white teeth.

_I love you_, he whispered in my ear, and when I woke up as we pulled into the driveway, I realized that I had never heard those words from his lips in the waking world.

"Are you all right, miss?" the driver—the same one who had taken me to the psychologists—asked when I didn't make to get out of the car once he opened the door. I stared blankly at him until I remembered how to move my feet, and when I stumbled he caught me gently by the arm.

"Take it easy," he muttered as he escorted me up my home's white marble steps. "And… good luck."

I looked at him. His eyes were concerned; with a start I realized that he was not much older than me. Probably just a year or two, but... how had he come to be under Father's influence so young?

"Thank you," I said, and he tipped his hat as the door opened beneath the hand of a butler. The driver jogged down the steps and jumped in the car, zooming off as the butler took my arm and led me in, and the first thing I saw was Father.

"You're having a test today," he told me, putting a clamping arm around my shoulders. With leaden feet I let him steer me into the bowels of the house, toward rooms no one ever seemed to use. "Don't disappoint me."

"No, Father," I said slowly, head reeling worse than it had all day when a pair of doors—where had they come from?—swung open before us.

Then I found myself in hell.

The room was a drawing room with no windows, a huge roll top desk, a half dozen chairs, and an oriental folding screen arranged like something out of a tasteful decorating catalogue only available to the rich and famous. The colors would have been beautiful and soothing had the entire room—from walls to floor to ceiling to every piece of expensive furniture—not been covered by blank white sheets. A pull-down projection screen that looked dingy and grey against the sheets had been installed along one wall, and in front of this screen sat a high-backed wooden chair decorated with things straight out of my darkest memories and nightmares.

Leather restraining straps.

Sweat beaded on my temple. Those would dig into my flesh, score my skin with thin red lines that would crack and bleed in my bath that night, and chafe like…

Subconsciously I hugged my arms around myself, pulling my long sleeves farther over my hands like cotton shields.

Father pushed me into the room without gentleness, and five heads turned my way. The doctors wore white coats even more blank than the sheets on the walls and floor, and their faces held as much emotion as a cart full of cabbages. All regarded me through cool eyes, like I was some sort of animal about to be given up for dissection.

Father pushed me behind the folding screen, the only private place in the otherwise exposing room, and stepped out of my line of sight. If nothing else, he knew when to give me privacy, especially when I was so outnumbered. "Undress," he commanded. "Quickly. We don't have much time before your dose wears off."

I slowly kicked off my shoes and stripped off my socks, and after I unfastened my school-issue necktie and began to unbutton my blouse, one of the doctors—the only female—was beside me with a smock. I put it on with her help and pulled down my skirt beneath the starched white garment, leaving my underwear intact for the one bit of modesty my Father was willing to afford me. Then the doctor dragged me out into the open, toward the chair and toward the waiting lab coats.

"Sit," Father said, and I did. With cold fingers the doctors swarmed in, attaching a net of electrodes to my scalp with practiced ease, and they stuck patches of pulse-reading gauze to my arms and legs and chest and face in less than a minute. The little white dots had wires sprouting from their centers, and all the wires trailed to a little silver machine that sat at the foot of my chair. It hummed, alive with pulsing lights and a small black screen that lit up with hundreds of green lines every time I moved.

I hated that machine and what it stood for, but I hated what happened next even worse, because that's when they applied the straps.

Robbing someone of the ability to move is a horrible kind of punishment, one which is often overlooked by most people who think they know the true meaning of torture. Water boarding, a punch to the face, needles beneath the fingernails… none of it compares to the sheer terror of being rendered immobile and helpless, and even though I was still so fuzzy from the pills I could feel claustrophobia cutting across my psyche like a butcher's knife. I began to sweat and pant as they fastened my legs to the chair at the ankle, knee, and thigh. I couldn't stop a low, moaning grizzle when they fastened my arms at the elbow, wrist, and across the shoulders. They put one strap around my hips and another beneath my breasts, and then they put the worst one—the one with padding of itchy gauze that clung and rubbed raw and stung—around my throat, binding my head back against the tall chair so I could do nothing but stare straight ahead.

At my side, the machine whirred.

Unbound hair clung to my neck and chest like ropey snakes. The lights on the ceiling darkened; my claustrophobic hyperventilation increased. My limbs twitched and struggled within their restraints, the leather cutting into tough old scars from years of repeated testing.

The projector above my head whirred into life; a small purple triangle marred the center of the screen.

Then it disappeared.

Twenty gray boxes in a five-by-five grid appeared before me. The rows were labeled a, b, c, d, and e in descending order, and the columns were one, two, three, four, and five from right to left. Each box had its own label corresponding to its position on the screen: A5, B2, E4…

The boxes lingered for a second, then were gone.

I knew the drill by now. "A4," I said, trying not to think too hard even as I prayed and hoped and denied and wished, and the boxes disappeared.

The triangle had been hiding behind E3.

The doctors made sounds of despair.

An orange circle popped up. Then the boxes covered it.

"C5," I said.

It showed up behind A2.

"Start the shocks," I heard Father say.

"Sir," one of the doctors—the woman—said. "Sir, she's suffering—"

"Do it," Father hissed, and before me glowed a yellow star. Then the boxes took its place.

My teeth ground together so hard that I felt one of them chip, a sharp pain making me cry out as my battered enamel failed to withstand the pressure of my jaw. My eyes darted from side to side, seeking Father so I could plead with him to _stop this, please, I beg you,_ but he was behind me and all I saw were the pitying faces of the doctors.

"Choose," he said, and I felt one horrible tear slip down my cheek.

"D2," I gasped, and one of the doctors moved toward the machine. "No, please no, I can get it, I can—"

I saw the oldest doctor—the one who had been giving me these tests since I was old enough to take them—move in my peripheral vision. His fingers twitched around something small and black, and then my spine arched when all the little pads on my body came alive with electricity. I spasmed in my chair, leather gripping me like the teeth of a shark. The electricity cut through my foggy brain in a second, shearing through the funk like a sword through cobweb. And the _pain_. It wasn't enough to seriously hurt me, that much I knew, but—

"Where," I heard my father say under the fire in my blood, "is it, Saiyuri?"

I gasped. "A, A3, I—"

The doctor shook his head. I heard my Father sigh.

"Continue for half an hour," he said. "I have business to attend."

His footsteps followed him out. I shot a pleading look at the head doctor as my legs fell to merely twitching.

"Please," I said, trying to shake my head. "Please, don't do this."

But the doctor didn't listen.

He just pushed the button.

* * *

~`~`~`~`~The rest of this chapter is reader-safe.

* * *

Chiyo texted me while I was having my bath, flakes of torn skin crumbling beneath a sponge as two maids tried to scour the memories and evidence away. I hardly saw them though, and when I asked one of them to bring me my buzzing phone mid-shampoo, my trembling fingers almost dropped the phone in the tub.

"Do you want me to read it to you, Saiyuri-san?" asked the maid who had had good enough reflexes to snatch the phone just above the surface of water that stank of sweat and blood and filth. She had been crying over the state I was in, but I knew that she probably would not volunteer for another after-testing bath session for as long as she could.

A part of me resented her for this, just as another part of me resented the mansion's staff for not reporting what my father did to me to the authorities.

I knew the maids were there because they owed Father's creditor's money, but it still hurt.

"Yes," I rasped, and she flipped the phone open.

"'Can you meet me tonight?'" the maid said, brow furrowing as she read words she didn't understand. "'Something just happened and I NEED YOU.'"

I stared at her for a long time, not knowing how to react, and then I stood up, water sluicing down my body in small rivers of soap and grime. "Tell someone to bring the car around," I said even as my legs shook. I had spots, I noticed—red ones from the places the electrodes had done their work.

The other maid's jaw dropped. She stuttered: "But Saiyuri-san, you're not in any condition—"

I wheeled on her, naked and uncaring and more full of power than I had felt in days.

"Bring," I whispered, "it, _around_."

The night's horrors suddenly seemed so far away.

* * *

_NOTES:_

_I teared up when writing Saiyuri's torture session (it hurts me to hurt her so much), and I AM SO SORRY I had to put that in there. I just felt like her suffering couldn't be understood without such graphic detail._

_THIS STORY GOT SOME ARTWORK! From the wonderful Kaijin-san, who did a GREAT job on Chiyo and Saiyuri. Please drop by and give Kaijin-san some wonderful and totally deserved comments! Link's on my profile. ^^_

_The next chapter is from Chiyo's POV, for those who were wanting to know._

_THANKS SO MUCH, REVIEWERS! Out-Of-Control-Authoress, Zetsubel, Pandachan31, American Senpai, ovenfreshh, chocolateluvr 13, Misuzu-PM, AkaMizu-Chan, DoilyRox, Naitza-Kururugi, Kaori Minamino, AkIrA121, Reclun, Reiko, rain chant, .Crystal, FallenAngelx3, 9shadowcat9, j.d.y., moani-sama, colbub!_


	7. Chapter 7: Loss & Loans

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 07:

"Loss & Loans"

* * *

I knew Kara Sugoi from my files. Given the impression of said files, I did not like her. She had submitted the name of every last popular guy in school to the Match Box, she had come to me personally looking for Minamino as a set-up, and she had even been one of the annoying ones who claimed she was 'different' from the others. Gag me, right? But as I watched her strut her very confident self through the roof's door, I found myself admiring her just a little. The girls certainly had balls, if nothing else.

But why was _she_ here, anyway?

As Shuichi turned from where he had been looking out over the school courtyard, Sugoi stopped walking and stood with her hands on her hips in the center of the roof. I knelt inside the greenhouse, peering at the two of them through the camouflage of a planter box full of flowering petunias, and as they stared one another down without saying a word I felt my heart rate pick up just a bit.

Her sheer courage didn't detract from what was obvious: that Kara Sugoi was in no way, shape, or form Minamino's type. I mean, she was a Ganguro girl, for one thing, and she wore her uniform like it was her personal playground. That dark tan, that bleached hair, that crazy pastel eyeshadow and flower-child jewelry… not my style for sure, but even less Minamino's if I had to place any bets. He'd go for an intellectual, or at least someone who didn't wear that much face paint…

Minamino spoke first. "It took me a while to figure out who 'Ren' was," he said conversationally. "Actually, I guessed more from the content of your letter than I did from your little pun, but I digress. You _do_ know that crows and wrens are not the same specie of bird, correct?"

It all clicked as soon as he said it. My brain spelled Sugoi's name, isolated ka-ra-su, and connected it to its avian counterpart in a millisecond.

_Now if she'd gotten the pun right,_ I thought, scowling, _I would have noticed it earlier. Stupid bitch._

Sugoi—whose face had seemed strong, composed, and hopeful up until that point—crumpled. "I wasn't the one who made it up," she said, voice sullen. "And I figured that I shouldn't sign the note with my real name."

"That much was smart," Minamino said with far more cruelty than I had ever seen from him. His words dripped with disdain. "Calling me up here today, however, was not. Care to explain yourself?"

Sugoi took a deep breath through lips painted so pale a pink they seemed white. "I smelled it," she admitted. "While I was running from you. I smelled roses and I turned around, and I saw you run off after… it." She paused and shuddered, but then she gamely met Minamino's cold green eyes—they seemed grey at that moment, reflecting their inner chill. "What was that thing, anyway?"

"An _oni_," Minamino said in a tone that suggested they were discussing things no more important than the weather. His expression did not reveal whether or not he was joking, speaking in metaphor, or really suggesting the impossible. I got the feeling he was deadly serious, and that scared me more than Saiyuri's glare. "It was going to kill you."

Sugoi's eyes screamed open. Her voice shook, confidence evaporating under the weight of Shuichi's uncompromising mouth and eyes. "It was so awful," she said, legs shaking in their baggy socks, "but when I turned you were glowing so bright that I couldn't look away, and when you ran I followed." It took her a moment, but then she added: "Like a moth… to a flame."

I wanted to barf at the look on her face. It was like Minamino was the culmination of all her inner desires, a god made solid, something to be adored and treasured without question.

Minamino, however, just stared at her.

"I've liked you since I first saw you," Sugoi said. She was breathless, I noticed.

"So do most girls," Shuichi said dryly, but Sugoi was not to be dissuaded.

"No, not because of what you look like," she said, shaking her head so that her hair fell into her face. "You were always so aloof that I just knew you had something hiding where I couldn't see it, and I always wanted to know what it was." Her eyes cleared like breaking clouds. "But now I know. Won't you tell me more?"

Shuichi sighed, head dropping to his chest until his hair obscured his eyes. I could see his mouth, however, which was pressed into a thin line.

"And now I know you like me, too," Sugoi ventured. She took a step toward Minamino. He didn't move. "No one would fight like that for someone they didn't care for."

His mouth pressed tighter. "I assure you, I would have done that for anyone in danger," he said. "You weren't the first I've saved and you won't be the last."

Sugoi froze, then sputtered: "But you _killed_ for me! You _must_ have been protecting me!"

My eyes widened.

Killed?

Pulse jumping up more than a few notches, I felt my palms go slick with sweat as I processed just how high the stakes had risen in only a few words. What was Saiyuri after, why did she need Minamino, why—

Killed?

_Killed_?

Minamino was a _murderer_?

Minamino's head tipped back; he seemed bored. "You aren't a special case," he said, enunciating each painful syllable. Sugoi flinched with every last one. "You were just a coincidence."

Sugoi gaped at him, but then he sighed and dropped his face again. Only this time, his mouth had curled into a sharp smile that Sugoi couldn't see.

"I've kept this a secret for my entire life," he said in a voice of pain and hope that did not reflect his devious looks, "but the truth is… I'm an angel." He raised his head; his green eyes were clear like a spring day. But where had that horrible look gone? "I slay devils to protect the human race. Not even my mother knows."

I didn't believe him for a second, but I _did_ believe something else. _He's as good an actor as _I_ am_, I realized as he curled his arms around himself, expression melting into something so pitiable and lovely it even made my heart melt a bit. He'd gone from damnable to rescueable in a sentence, and now he seemed so genuinely anguished that I could almost forget he had been insulting Sugoi just minutes before.

_Shit, _I thought_. Not good._

"I knew it," Sugoi said, awed. Obviously she was easier to fool than I was. She took another step toward him. "I knew when I saw that light—it was like you had a halo." A pause marked the way her eyes darted around in thought. "And you've been alone all this time?"

He nodded, looking like he was about to cry (_what a stupid fucking girl_, I thought when Sugoi teared up herself).

"Well, you're not alone now," she said, sniffing, and she went to him with her arms open. A hug later he was staring over the top of her head, and she had her face pressed into his uniformed chest.

_Careful,_ I thought. _You'll never get her makeup out of your shirt if she keeps this up._

"I'm here, and I know everything, so I'll stay by your side," she said, pushing back so she could look him in the eye. Sugoi's back was to me and I could see Minamino's face in profile. "You won't be alone anymore. Trust me."

His face was soft and full of light. "Of course," he said kindly, and he lifted his hand to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear—

—or that's what I thought at first.

What happened then happened out of my line of sight because it happened between Sugoi's head and Shuichi's chest. I saw his hand rise up to her face with a piece of green tucked between thumb and forefinger, and then his face warped into something that was calculating and merciless, and then there was this deep green flash of light that was barely light at all—

I muffled a cry as the not-light stung my eyes, and with a small intake of breath I ducked down out of reach. When I raised my head back up a second later, Minamino was catching Sugoi as she fell limply to the floor. His arms snaked around her hips and shoulders as he lowered her to the ground.

He caressed her hair. "And now," he said with a glitter of deep green, "I have nothing more to worry about."

Then he stood up.

And then he left.

I sat in shock for a few minutes, waiting to see if Minamino would come back or if Sugoi would wake up, and when neither of those things happened I stood, cursing when I realized both my feet were asleep, and crept out the greenhouse door on toes of buzzing gnats and pin needles. I felt like a germ under a microscope as I approached the fallen girl, and I shot more than a few glances at the roof's door as I knelt, grabbed her shoulder, and shook her three time.

"Hey," I hissed. "Hey, hey, wake up!"

It didn't take long for her to twitch, roll onto her back, and issue a low moan at the sky. I sighed in relief and sat back on my haunches in a terribly unladylike squat.

"Oh thank god," I said, laughing a little as I hung my head and sighed. "I was sure he'd _killed_ you."

Sugoi was just as crude as I was when she cursed, rubbed her eyes, and sat up. I noticed that her thick eye makeup had run down her face, making her look more like a clown than anything that could be taken seriously.

"Where am I?" she growled, threading her fingers through her hair. Her mouth twisted abruptly, and she turned her head and spat. A dark green blob of _something_ squished onto the roof's tiles. "Shit, but I have a headache."

I stared at the green blob and recognized it as a saliva-coated rosemary leaf. My brain promptly brought up all the rosemary references I'd seen in the past twenty four hours, and there were two: the first was Minamino's book page from class, and the second was from the planter box directly above my hiding spot in the greenhouse.

A planter box which, if I was remembering correctly (and I was), Minamino had taken something from.

"You have nothing to worry about now," I said in my most soothing, I-know-exactly-what-I'm-talking-about-so-don't-you-worry-'bout-a-thing,-baby, voice. "He's gone."

Her eyes—though confused—were sharp. "_Who's_ gone?" she snapped, and then she looked around. Confusion twisted into the anger that often accompanies lack of understanding. "How the hell did I get up _here_?"

I froze, staring at her. I wasn't sure what to think when she trained her dark eyes on me and sneered: "Did you drug me?"

_Rosemary is often used to treat amnesia,_ said my memory of Minamino's book.

"Uh," I said, and the lie spilled from my mouth without a trace of hesitance. If there was one thing I was good at, it was lying. "No. I was working in the greenhouse when I heard voices, and then when I went to look you had… fainted."

Her lips pursed with a smudge of gloss. "Oh. But why the hell was I up here?"

I wracked my brain for an excuse. "Overheating can make you do random stuff, then forget all about it after you pass out," I suggested. I mentally pulled up her class schedule, one of many I had on file, and said: "What was your last class of the day—PE?"

Her eyes opened wide. "Yeah, it is, but how did you—" Her eyes promptly narrowed as she recognized my face. "Makoto Chiyo."

I smiled, wry and without humor. "The very same."

"Bet that memory of yours sure does come in handy sometimes," she said coolly, rising to her feet with a stumble. I could understand her cold attitude—she was one of the girls on my blacklist and she knew it. "Bye. Thanks for helping me but _don't_ think I owe you anything."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I grunted as I stood up. She was much taller than I was, but her glare didn't faze me at all. Seeing this, she rolled her eyes and spun on her heel, stalking toward the exit like a tiger without claws.

I watched her go without comment.

My brain whispered: _Often used to treat amnesia…_

* * *

I wasn't sure what to tell Saiyuri because I wasn't sure what the hell I was supposed to be telling _myself _after seeing someone get their friggin' memory erased (until I got more info that supported me not being a crazed lunatic, I was keeping my mouth shut tight), so I just texted her Sugoi's name and left it at that.

Saiyuri responded about an hour later (surprise, much?) but her words were exactly what I'd thought they'd be, a quick and blunt imperative that ran along the lines of: "What happened?" Not wanting to talk about it before I got it settled in my own head, I just said 'tomorrow' and hoped for the best, but when she started rapid-fire texting tons of threats my way I just said 'Turning my phone off' and hoped she'd get the hint.

She didn't. So I turned my phone off. And then I went home.

* * *

The first thing I did after I saw what I saw between Minamino and Sugoi on the rooftop was pay off my rent. I stopped by the bank on my way home, withdrew enough of Saiyuri's payment money from my account to facilitate the next four month's worth of rent and utilities, and checked my account balance. A grin split my features; even with all the money I had put into my savings and the account I had named "DAD FUND," the intention of which I had never articulated aloud to anyone, I still had so much in my checking account that the future was looking quite bright indeed. The realization put a spring in my step, and when I rang the bell on my superintendent's desk I wasn't hesitant at all—which was unusual considering how I usually struggled to meet payments on time.

The super came out of his office-slash-apartment with a yawn, and when he saw me his eyes went from sleepy to wary in a second. Nobu-san, as everyone called him, was a big guy with a trim figure, thinning hair, and enough empathy to power the Red Cross. Since he was well aware of my living situation, he often cut me slack he didn't cut others.

Today, however, he was pushing his limits. "If you need another extension," he said in a voice that was both stern and apologetic at once, "I hate to say it, but you're three months behind already, and…"

I grinned at him, reached into my bag without breaking eye contact, and set an envelope crowned with my bank's crest on the counter. His eyes darted from my face to the envelope suspiciously, and he thumbed the white pocket open with the words: "What is… oh. _Oh_."

"There's the three months I owe and four more months in advance," I said, not bothering to hide how excited I was.

His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "These are big bills." He met my eyes through thick oval glasses. "You aren't…. you know. Walking the streets?"

I snorted. "Me? Are you serious? Have you seen my serious lack of _rack_ lately?"

His eyes, to his credit, flicked to my boobs before he said: "Well, _now_ I noticed. But some guys don't like, er… _you_ _know_."

I laughed at his awkwardness. He was kind of a distant father figure to me, so it was rather endearing to see him worried over me. "I just got a client that was willing to pay way, _way_ more than I'm usually willing to allow," I said, "but it's a tough case and she was insistent so I got the cash. It's gonna be smooth sailing for a while."

"Yeah." He smiled, though grimly. "Your dad was here earlier with some guys," he said, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach. "They looked like rough types. Keep your head down if you can."

"Thanks," I said, thinking about this bit of information's implications. I bid Nobu-san goodbye as I walked slowly up the stairs to the fourth floor (the elevator was broken again) and down the hall to my apartment, and when I opened the door I found myself overcome by the scent of cheap gin.

Dad was passed out on the couch, snoring with an empty bottle on his chest.

I stared at him for a long time, not knowing what to feel as I watched the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Putting two and two together wasn't hard considering the two cases of beer, two bottles of gin, and the five sake bottles sitting on the kitchen table.

"You know you're not supposed to borrow money from yakuza," I said to his sleeping form as I carried the bottles—stacked precariously atop the case of beer—into the bathroom. With shaking hands I uncorked them all and poured them down the sink, and when they were empty I filled them all with water and left them exactly where I'd found them. As I headed out of the kitchen I said: "Figure it out on your own tomorrow, you sorry excuse for a…"

The insult died on my tongue as I walked into my closet of a room and saw my overturned mattress, open desk drawers, and ransacked closet. With a weary sigh I began to straighten up the room my father had searched for booze money, grateful for once to the paranoia that made me keep my cash on my person at all times. Once I had everything—all of my stuff, which didn't amount to much if you want to know the truth—back in its place, I lay down on my bed and shut my eyes.

Sleep—my one escape from the reality of my father's addiction—came easy.

* * *

I went to school early the next day, and with one of the keys I kept around my neck I opened the school's front doors and marched inside. I had five keys on my necklace: one to my home, a copy of the school's master key, a key to my safety deposit box, and two other keys that I rarely used but treasured above all others. I took the necklace off and held the keys in my hands as I approached the guidance counselor's office, and when I stood in front of it I slipped the master key into the lock.

It was barely six AM, so I was more than alone when the door creaked open. Still, I was cautious when I booted up the computer and logged in, and when I accessed the student records I immediately went to Omura Saiyuri's.

To my extreme satisfaction, it had been updated only four days earlier. I began to read it at my leisure, skipping through the generic info until I got to the counselor's personal comments.

What I found there would change my opinion of her forever.

* * *

Saiyuri texted me not long after school started, looking for a meet-up, and I granted her request after debating on my answer until lunch. But I needn't have worried: she was distant, mumbling, and she looked like she hadn't slept at all the night before. It was good she was distracted, because it made my own discomfort much easier to hide.

I could hardly look at her, knowing what I knew. I felt dirty, like a crawling maggot that lived without the permission of God.

_I completely invaded her privacy_, I thought as I left Saiyuri in the library's study room. She hadn't noticed my awkward use of anger to cover up my sheer embarrassment and lack of willingness to discuss the events of the day before—they made me sound nuts, after all, and admitting them aloud would only drive that point home._ I mean, she's just so _different_ from other kids our age. What the shit has she been through?_

It hit me just before the school's dismissal bell rang.

_She must have been through something like what Minamino Shuichi is able to dish out._

* * *

I walked home slowly after school. Saiyuri had walked past without seeing me in the shoe locker area, and I had watched through shrewd eyes as she was bundled into the back of a huge black car and driven off to parts unknown.

_I wish I had a chauffeur,_ I caught myself thinking before I remembered exactly what she'd gone through, and I berated myself for being shallow_. Totally not the time for that. Gotta get home and plan how I'm going to get the dirt on Minamino._

Going home, however, was not as easy as it seemed.

For some reason, Nobu-san was sitting on the steps of the apartment building instead of sitting safe behind his desk, and when he saw me he stood up, grabbed me by the elbow, and tugged me away down the street with one single hissed word.

"_Hurry_."

We got all the way to the next block by the time he slowed down enough for me to say: "What the _hell_ is this about?"

He turned to face me. We were on a crowded street in the market district, and few people took notice of the girl-and-the-man-who-could-be-her-father standing and chatting on the sidewalk.

"Those rough-looking guys I mentioned yesterday are standing outside your apartment," he said calmly. My throat twitched. "They came around this morning to look for your dad, but I stopped them and went up to your place to warn him."

I could see where this was going. "So he left, right?" I asked dryly. "And let me guess—you have a note for me?"

He nodded, not surprised to find me nonplussed by this turn of events. A hand dipped into his pocket to reveal a scrap of beer-box cardboard.

"'Had to leave cause they're looking for money,'" Dad had written in smeared ink. "'Be back when it's safe.'"

"Safe for who, Dad?" I asked no one in particular, and when I looked up I found Nobu staring at me.

"It's not safe for you in that apartment," he said. "They tried muscling where your dad was out of me when they came around the second time—apparently they only gave your dad a twenty-four hour loan."

"For how much?" I asked, and when he told me I rolled my eyes. "That's not bad," I said. "I can handle _that_ much."

"At four-hundred-percent interest?" Nobu said, and I gaped at him before feeling my vision narrow in rage.

"Why the _fuck_ did he go for those guys?" I growled, meaning my dad and his horrible choice of creditor. "Did he piss off the all the cheaper loan sharks or something?"

"They have a picture of you," Nobu said, and my anger only bubbled brighter. "It was in a frame so I think they got it out of your place, and they were asking residents about you before I tried chasing them off. I threatened to call the cops on them, but I knew…" He trailed off.

I closed my eyes. "Thanks," I said. I was only seventeen, and if the cops came by you could bet your buck teeth they'd report my living situation to Children's Services. I loved my dad and I knew he'd pretty much die without me, so I wanted to avoid getting the cops involved with any part of my life at least until I came of age. Nobu knew this, too, and had realized it from the first time I had been the one to provide our rent money.

"So what will you do?" he asked, and I took a deep breath.

"I'm gonna get half of what we owe them out of the bank. It's more than enough for payment," I said slowly. "Can I give it to you to give to them?"

"Of course."

"But they'll still be pissed that I didn't pay up all the way, so I'll lie low somewhere until tomorrow night," I went on. "I can sleep at school; I've got a key. I just need to get into my apartment for some clothes before I go—oh, and my computer, I don't want them pawning it."

"I'll give them the money so they'll be distracted," Nobu offered. "You can sneak in then."

I smiled at him, and in a moment of weakness I actually reached out and squeezed his hand. I wasn't supposed to get attached to anyone—not until I had my life back on track. But Nobu was just so _kind_ to me…

"Thanks," I said, and he smiled.

"No problem," he said. "Let me walk you to the bank?"

_

* * *

_

NOTES:

_EDIT: I couldn't help it- I drew Kurama as a chibi angel. Link is on my profile. XD_

_So. Now we know what Chiyo saw. Kurama's angel lie was especially amusing. _

_But what did she see in Saiyuri's file?_

_And how will Chiyo get out of a confrontation with the Loan Shark Brigade? (It has to do with the plot, I swear.) And why does she make the "I need you" call to Saiyuri? AH THE QUESTIONS!_

_Also, if some of you are familiar with my other story, Future Talk, you might be seeing Kurama a bit differently from the way he is in the other fic. Intentional! I'm trying to play up his dangerous aspect in this, because I think he'd get pretty vicious if his secret was threatened by a bunch of stupid highschoolers who do not know in what affairs they meddle. An experiment in characterization, if you will._

_Anywho, many thanks to my lovely reviewers. I'm totally not worthy! Ovenfreshh, FallenAngelx3, Reclun, Rokkugoh, Out-Of-Control-Authoress, Misuzu-PM, Kaori Minamino, Angel of Randomosity, Panda-chan31, Kaijin-san, Zetsubel, moani-sama, Doily Rox, double a battery, chocolateluvr13! _


	8. Chapter 8: Running & Recon

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 08:

"Running & Reconnaissance"

* * *

My apartment building is shaped like a long rectangle, with a staircase on each of the shorter sides that can take you up to any of the five floors. I live in an apartment facing the alleyway behind the building (street-front apartments cost extra for the view) on the third story, and after I got the money out of the bank I went up one set up stairs while Nobu went up the other.

The plan was for Nobu to call the men down to his office from one end of the long hallway lined on both sides with apartments, effectively taking them down staircase # 1 while I made my way up staircase # 2. That way we missed each other entirely, allowing me to slip in, then out, of my home unnoticed.

But it didn't go that way. It didn't go that way at all.

Nobu and I split up in the lobby with a quick shared nod, and I entered the stairwell with a spike of adrenaline to make my heart pound. I went up the stairs as quietly as I could, and when I reached my floor I cautiously peeked through the wire-shot window set in the door's right side.

Five men in suits stood around my apartment, leaning on walls or pacing the floor like caged lions. One of them smoked, and none of them looked too friendly. As I watched, their heads swiveled as one toward the door on the other end of the hallway, which promptly opened to reveal Nobu. He held out his hand, the one with my money in it, smiling as his voice murmured past the door in front of me, and the thugs exchanged glances before heading toward him and vanishing inside the staircase.

I didn't hesitate. As soon as the door shut behind them I ran on quiet feet to my apartment, key necklace taken off and held at the ready so I could shove it into the lock without fuss—

My feet skidded to a stop as my hand flailed at the door, but I missed the lock, metal jabbing against the doorframe with a vibration that almost numbed my arm, and the keys fell from my nervous hands and jingled gaily on the tile floor.

I froze, then shook myself so I could pick the keys back up, but as I bent I froze anew.

The door at the end of the hallway had opened.

"Well, well, well," said a deep voice. "Looks like the little rat was getting tricky on us."

I turned my head, braid flopping against my jaw since I was still bent over, to find the thugs standing in a group at the end of the hall. Nobu was with them, eye already blackening as blood dripped freely from his lip. One of the gangsters held him up by the collar, and as I watched he tossed Nobu to the floor in a boneless heap.

"Sorry… Chiyo," he groaned, trying to get on his hands and knees, but one of the thugs kicked him roughly in the ribs. He went back down with an 'oomph'.

"It's OK, Nobu," I said, swallowing as my memory burned the image of a kind, bleeding Nobu into my brain forever, and I quickly put my key in the door, turned the lock, and went inside. A shout went up and feet started pounding down the hall, but I secured the deadbolt and chain and leaned against the door to brace it, feeling it rattle as more than one of the thugs started beating on it.

"Can't stay in there forever, bitch!" one yelled as I darted away from the door and into the living room. I didn't bother with taking off my shoes or dropping my schoolbag. "Your little landlord friend has a spare key in his office! My boys are getting it right now, so why don't you just speed this process…"

His words faded when I went into my room (ignore it when enemies heckle you; that's the best option), grabbed my black hiking backpack, and started jamming clothes, jewelry, the MatchMaker Book, and my laptop into it. I don't own much; the process of stripping my room bare took all of a minute. Then I took my wallet out of the pocket on my school skirt and shoved it to the bottom of my bag so it wouldn't fall out, and my fingers shook so hard I almost failed at stripping out of my uniform and changing into street clothes: a pair of baggy olive cargo pants, sneakers, and a white halter top beneath a black hoodie. I balled up the uniform and put it in my backpack, too, and with the intent of grabbing a little food I went out into the living room on my way to the kitchen.

The front door opened right as I did, but luckily the chain lock caught it and all I could see was a leering, pock-marked face grinning in on me. "Trapped like a little rat," the thug cooed, but I just flipped him off as I scrambled back into my room and locked the door behind me. My heart raced, but I kept a cool head as I scanned my trashed apartment and locked eyes on the window.

_Of course!_

I crossed the room and my fingers scrambled over the window's lock, but even though it was rusty I still managed to get it open and climb out onto the fire escape. The metal frame shook and swayed as I climbed down the ladder, frantically searching for handholds until I reached the second story and jumped onto that landing. There was, however, no ladder between the ground and the second floor, so I had to brace myself and just jump off.

I rolled when I hit the ground, just the way the teachers as school taught us to do to absorb impact if we were ever in a situation like this (though I doubt any of them had counted on using that move when running from Yakuza, but hey, I like keeping the administration on its toes). No broken bones presented themselves, thank whoever's listening, so I got up and tore off down the alley at a sprint. A voice from above called "The fire escape!" over the sound of breaking glass, and I rounded the corner of the building and hit the street without slowing down.

Somehow I managed to run all the way past the apartment building before the thugs could come downstairs and chase after me, but with a 100 meter head start there was little they could do to catch up. However, I got caught at a couple of red lights on my way to the subway station, so detours through neighborhoods and alleys slowed me, and by the time I got to the station I was more than a little out of breath. Still, I wasn't about to take a breather because I knew the thugs had probably guessed where I was going and were going to come after me in a few moments. With a shouted apology to the stunned ticket-taker I hopped the subway turnstiles, pushed past other patrons, and flew down to the train platform. When I heard the sound of shouts behind me I knew that I hadn't outpaced the thugs as well as I thought I had, and I put on an extra burst of speed just in time to jump inside a train car right as the doors started to close.

The thugs didn't have the universe's perfect timing the way I did, and they came slipping and sliding onto the platform right as the train pulled away from the track. I flipped them off and cackled through the window, watching with glee as the leader slugged one of his cronies across the face in agitation. When they were out of sight I flopped into a seat and sighed, grinning at the ceiling as I panted for breath, and when I looked around I realized that the other passengers were staring at me with looks that bordered on fearful.

I suppose the situation did look kind of bad, after all: a young girl making rude hand gestures. running from bloodthirsty men who like punching people. If that wasn't incriminating then I don't know what was.

As I pulled my black hood over my hair and slumped further into my seat, I thought: _Yeah, real smooth move, Chiyo._

* * *

I'm happy to report that the subway took me, totally without my knowledge, to our city's version of the famous Harajuku shopping district, and for the second time that day I felt like the universe was totally on my side because retail therapy was _exactly_ what I needed right then.

But I didn't just dive into the happy world of consumerism without taking the necessary precautions—no, sir; I knew the thugs saw the destination of the train I had gotten on and were probably in line for the next one. So, I went into the station bathroom and changed from my pants into a skirt (I like skirts better, anyway) and I turned my black hoodie inside out to reveal its yellow interior.

For the record, reversible clothing is nice when you need a quick disguise.

Anyway, I freshened my makeup and re-braided my hair, then put on a cute but comfy pair of flats and hit the town (after making sure my nails weren't broken in all the excitement, of course, which they weren't). The streets were alive with trendy young people, flashing lights, and plenty of advertisements to fill any blank spots on the walls of the fashion houses, shops, and cafes lining the busy roadways, and I felt a wave of happiness engulf me as I entered a boutique and splurged on a jeweled necklace shaped like a bumblebee that went perfectly with my outfit. Then I got something to eat—a warm crepe filled with chocolate and strawberries—from a vendor and sat down on a bench to eat it.

Now, I know what you're thinking: why didn't you run away, far away? Well, it's not just because I liked the atmosphere of the place and the shopping, if that's what you wondered. I stayed because I knew the thugs would think I _wouldn't_ stay, because who would be stupid enough to be that obvious, right?

Well, I hoped I was right. I might have been giving them too much credit.

Anyway. I sat on a bench and ate my crepe, then pulled my yellow hood over my hair and sat in an endearing slouch for a bit, watching the people walk by in friendly gaggles, in dating pairs, or just by themselves. People of all stereotypes and fashion cliques showed off their styles, so I committed the best ensembles to memory so I could try copying them later. My love of fashion made the act of sitting around doing nothing interesting, so long as those people kept walking by to provide me with unknowing entertainment. Despite having to keep a wary eye out for the thugs, it was practically bliss.

But my bliss did not last long.

I was tracking a gothic Lolita was _great_ boots when I caught a flash of red out of the corner of my eye, and when I say 'red' I don't mean the red of a dyed shirt or something. This red scintillated in ways I didn't think were possible, but ways that I knew _were_ possible, because I had seen those ways every single freaking day at school since practically forever. I sat up, muscles goes rigid as he walked by without casting his bright green eyes even once in my direction. He wove in and out of the crowds like some sort of ghost, face screwed up in a mask of concentration so intense it was a wonder the people he passed did not go up in flames.

It was, as you may have guessed, one Minamino Shuichi.

A part of me didn't believe it was happening. Sure, this place was a hub for every young person within a hundred miles, but Minamino? _Here_? It just didn't make sense! His version of fashionable consisted of high-waisted pants and a tie, and sure they always fit him really well and he always looked yummy, but _still_, he dressed like a fun-sucking _adult_! He had no business in the lights and sounds of this place, where youth roamed free and studying was for losers of the highest caliber. Minamino just didn't belong, dammit, and how the hell was I supposed to come to terms with that?

It was my photographic memory that made it all make sense with the recollection of his address: he lived, I recalled, within twenty blocks of this place in a surprisingly quiet residential neighborhood.

"Out for a stroll," I murmured as I watched him duck into a shop for two seconds, then pop back out again, eyes trained on something up the road. With long legs he strode away, following with his body whatever he tracked with his eyes, and I grabbed my backpack and started after him as if I was in a trance. "A stroll. Yeah, that must be it. Sure." My feet stopped moving as I watched him weave farther ahead. "But why the hell am I following him?"

A vision of Saiyuri's pinched face and desperate eyes—not to mention the things I'd learned from her counselor sheet in the student office—made me start walking again.

"This is for Saiyuri," I told myself, hopping a bit to catch sight of Minamino's hair over the heads of the generally taller crowd. "For Saiyuri. Yeah. She'd kill me if she knew I let a reconnaissance opportunity slip through my fingers." I grinned at a punk girl with a Mohawk when she stared, obviously disconcerted by the fact I was talking to myself. To her, I said: "'When in Rome', and all that shit."

She hustled away with a scowl.

I turned and started after Minamino.

* * *

_NOTES:_

_Sorry I haven't updated this in forever; life caught up!_

_The next chapter should come out pretty soon, too, and it should be A, longer, and B, full of Kurama. Yay?_

_ARTWORK! Kaijin-san did a watercolor of Chiyo which is elaborately LOVELY, Twilight-Red-Tammy did several sketches of both Chiyo and Saiyuri that are BEAUTIFUL and full of their personalities, and links to these wonderful peoples' work are on my profile. LOVE THEM TO PIECES, PLEASE!_

_In other news, Misuzu-PM proposed work on a COMIC of Fakes&Fiends! How awesome is that? Last I heard it'll be posted next Tuesday, so keep an eye on my profile for links. I'm incredibly grateful for her fantastic work and you should go shower her with love._

_THANK YOU, REVIEWERS! 9shadowcat9,Out-Of-Control-Authoress, LadyoftheGags, DoilyRox, Overfreshh, American Senpai, chocolateluvr13, Kaijin-san, FallenAngelx3, Kaori Minamino, SageofAges729, Moani-sama, ForNever21, Reclun, AkaMizu-Chan, Zetsubel, j.d.y., FoxgirlRay, Hopefully Helpful, Angel of Randomosity, DragonDancer93, Titch-Ola, u-nannymous, OhhTaylorJade, DestinysWindow, DevilAngelWolf27,and Damaris! _


	9. Chapter 9: Stalkers & Spies

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 09:

"Stalkers & Spies"

* * *

Keeping up with Minamino is like trying to grab an eel with your bare hands: as soon as you think you've got a good grip he gives you that special little twist that throws you off entirely. I can't tell you how many times I nearly lost him as he pressed, seemingly with superhuman speed, through gaps in the crowd that I doubted even _I_ could fit through, much less a person of his height and shoulder width. Thankfully, however, I was able to keep him mostly within my sights up until the point we reached the outskirts of the shopping district—that's where the crowds started to thin, you see, and that's when I realized that I wasn't the only one following somebody.

My photographic memory picked up on it before my conscious mind did. I kept seeing these brief flashes of purple that stood out like a bruise, always a handful of meters in front of Minamino and always just far enough away for me to not notice until the aforementioned crowd-thinning let me see the felt jacket on top of black slacks, the patent leather purse, and the silver stiletto heels three times in rapid succession. That's when I _really_ noticed how Minamino's eyes were locked unerringly on the woman's curvaceous figure, and I had to suppress a giggle as I hung back behind a gaggle of teenage girls heading toward a more populated area, one back the way I had come. I hadn't thought curvy was the red-head's type; willowy and severe would suit him better, was my honest match-maker's opinion.

Anyway, since it was dumb to stay out in the open, I ducked into the awning in front of an antique store, using the teens as cover to cross the street unseen, and then I watched Minamino and the woman in purple walk farther up the brick-paved road. It was far too deserted to get closer without getting caught, and I wondered how Minamino had the gall to stride so obviously, hands jammed in pockets with head held high, toward the woman traipsing along head of him.

_Is he _trying_ to get noticed?_ I thought, watching him. _Or maybe he _isn't_ following her… no, those eyes are way too intense to not be doing something important. But what does he want with Ms. Pretty?_

The woman, who I promptly began to think of as Ms. Pretty, had long, dark hair and wide, dark eyes that seemed a little frightened as they scanned the shops on the street's either side, and when she looked back over her shoulder and saw Minamino she froze, eyes opening so wide it looked painful, and then she took off at a run down a narrow alley between a bakery and a drycleaner's shop. She moved quickly despite her strappy sandals, but Minamino was quicker and, before I knew it, both had vanished into the alley.

"Shit," I muttered, "what is this guy, a straight-A rapist? No way am I going in there after him!"

But after a moment's hesitation, I sprinted out of the antique store's shadowy doorway and over to the dark side street.

I didn't go _right_ into the alley, however—I knew better than that. No, first I flipped my yellow coat to the black side for camouflage and pulled the hood over my hair, and then I peeked around the corner before locating Minamino and the woman standing by the chain link fence on the alley's far end. After ascertaining that they were each busy holding the other's attention in a stare-off (a scared one on Ms. Pretty's side; I couldn't see Minamino's face since his back was to me), I sought out one of the dumpsters only a meter or so away and tiptoed into the lee of it. A few trashcans in front of the dumpster provided me with cover, and I peered through the cracks between them to get a view of the action.

_That's it,_ I thought as I knelt amid old take-out boxes, discarded papers, and rotting food; my bare knee pressed into something wet and cold that I tried not to think about too much. _I know Saiyuri's paying me a buttload for this job, but we're starting a 'clothes ruined in the line of duty' tab as soon as I get home._

Anyway, the alley was dark. I mean, really dark. The sides of two brick buildings formed it, and the only light in the small space came from a single dingy window hidden among the rungs of the fire escape bolted right into the brick. Harsh, crisscrossing shadows confused my senses as I stared out from between the trashcans, and it took me a minute to relocate Minamino's shock of red hair, dyed dark brown in the yellow-tinged gloom. His body seemed relaxed under all the hair, but looks were nothing if not deceptive in Minamino's case, and if I were a betting woman I would say his expression must have been showing something fierce. Ms. Pretty, you see, was shaking like a leaf under the weight of it.

Ms. Pretty in the purple coat was the first to speak. "W-what do you want?" she asked in a high, clear, and trembling voice. She had her back pressed against the chain link, fingers twined into the metal as if it could change what was happening.

Minamino's voice was low, musical, and so deathly quiet I had to struggle to hear it.

"I think you know what I want," he said.

_Ohmigawd, ohmigawd, he really _is_ a rapist!_ I thought, feeling sweat bead on my palms and shoulder blades. _Is this what Saiyuri wanted me to confirm! That BITCH!_

Feeling like it _was_ what she wanted—she'd said I'd know it when I saw it, after all, and I was seeing this up close and personal—I slipped my suddenly cold fingers into the kangaroo pocket of my jacket, feeling the cellphone hidden there. I very carefully took it out, flipped it open, and readied the camera settings just in case I needed evidence with which to testify in a court of law at a later date.

_I might be stupid for putting myself in this situation,_ I thought, _but if that lady is about to get assaulted, I'm _totally_ gonna have her back! _

Ms. Pretty's mouth dropped open as she struggled for words. "Money?" she finally gasped, eyes lighting up in manic desperation. "I, I have money if that's what you mean!" She frantically tossed her purse—her _designer_ purse, dammit!—to the trash-covered ground at Minamino's feet. "My wallet has a hundred thousand yen inside, just take it if you want, please!"

Minamino didn't notice the purse's ruination. "But that's _not_ what I want," he said, and he took a step closer.

Ms. Pretty shrank back. "I have a cell phone, and, and my _ring_, it's _diamond_, it's—"

"Playing coy, are we?" Minamino remarked. "You should know very well what I'm after."

_Yup. He's definitely a rapist,_ I concluded, and I snapped a photo of the standoff with my phone. _Evidence? Check!_

Ms. Pretty appeared to have come to the same conclusion. "Stay away!" she cried, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye. A stream of charcoal eyeliner marred her pale cheek as her knees buckled; the only thing that kept her from falling were her fingers, still wound tight into the fence's fabric.

Minamino shook his head slowly from side to side. "My, my—still playing this game?" His voice took on a sneering tone. "And I had heard you _weren't_ a coward."

Her face went from agonizingly frightened to utterly confused in a millisecond (mine probably did the same). "Wh-what are you talking about?" she squeaked. "Have you been stalking me? Because I won't tell the police, I swear, I—"

"Drop the charade, maggot," Minamino snarled. I reeled back a little, shocked at the hateful tone coming out of his refined mouth. "I tire of your games. Show yourself. NOW."

And here's where shit gets weird.

You'd expect Ms. Pretty to freak out a little, right? Probably cry, make a few protests, bargain and plead and otherwise try to keep the inevitable from happening, right? Right. Because that's exactly what I was expecting, because that's the only logical response for someone on the brink of a horrible experience to have.

Right?

Nope.

We are both, apparently, wrong.

By that point, Ms. Pretty had slumped so far down against the fence that she was pretty much kneeling in fright, legs having gone to jelly underneath her. But as soon the word 'maggot' fell from Minamino's lips, her head snapped up and the terrified glint in her eyes turned to hard, unyielding malice. One second her body had been tense and tight with her adrenal fight-or-flight response; the next, she was glaring at Minamino and gathering her legs beneath her, and as I watched she rose to her full height, stepped away from the fence, and tossed her head so that her thick black hair tumbled pleasingly about her purple-clad shoulders.

When she spoke, her voice was not her own.

"How long have you been following me?" the new voice—the deeper, more powerful, more freaking _masculine_ voice—asked. Fists clenched at the woman's side (though at that point I wasn't so sure of her sex and stopped calling her 'Ms. Pretty' in favor of just plain 'Pretty').

"Only an hour," Minamino responded without missing a beat. For some reason, a measure of tension seemed to drain _out_ of his shoulders. What the hell, right? "I was in the area, and the Spirit World asked for a favor. You weren't hard to find."

Pretty's lips split in a wide, totally alien grin. "Must've gotten sloppy," she—it?—said. "Oh well. I was getting bored of this one, anyway."

This one _what_?

"You'll let go willingly, then?" Minamino inquired, politeness returning despite the weird-factor. He chuckled. "I was afraid you'd pose a longer chase, and I have a term paper to write."

Pretty shrugged. "What, little ol' me run from the infamous _Kurama_? What are you, nuts?" Pretty thought about that one for a minute, taking the time to spit at the wall in a gesture that was NOT at ALL like the feminine body he possessed.

And yeah. 'He'. For some reason, it seemed to fit.

"Eh, what the hell, you probably _are_ nuts," Pretty said. He spread his arms out to either side, like he wanted a hug or something. His grin widened into a thing I thought only existed in nightmares; I couldn't help but shudder at the sight. "Turning your back on your own kind like that—just what kind of demon _are_ you?"

"The kind who does not take kindly to insults," Minamino snapped, and then he lunged.

It happened too quickly for me to follow, so… one second Minamino was there, and the next he had picked Pretty up by the throat with both hands and was holding the man-voiced-woman-thing high off the ground. Pretty's stilettos kicked at the air as he tried desperately to pry those hard white hands away.

On reflex, my thumb jammed at the 'capture' button on my cellphone, catching the unreal pose in the act.

"Let, go!" Pretty gurgled, face purpling. "You'll… hurt…. host!" The look in his eye showed anger, but no pain. I registered this, but did not process it. Shock made thinking a secondary concern to not jumping up and running.

Fingers tightened. Shoulders showed no signs of tiring. How was Minamino holding him up for so damn long?

"I will only let go," he said calmly, "after _you_ do."

A gasp, a twist, and then: "FINE!" Pretty bellowed, and suddenly there were two faces overlapping one another, the classically beautiful face of the woman in purple overlaid by a translucent silver mask of raw fury, features twisting into a bubbled jaw and a hooked nose with horns sprouting from the forehead, _horns_, dammit!, and there were eyes that glowed a color I had no name for as the silvery mask surged _forward_ toward Minamino's face—

My thumb spasmed, phone capturing _something_—

Arms flexed; Pretty's body sailed toward the fence, collided with it with a sound like bells, and thudded to the ground. The silver mist swayed above it for a moment, having traveled with the body as it flew, and then it coalesced once more into the face of the devil itself. A glare that would have melted me alive merely made Minamino scoff, head tossing back in a tumble of night-darkened hair.

"Leave," he said. "You have no place here."

The silver face vanished.

I would have turned around and run at that point had the sight of the face not frozen me to my spot. Unblinking, screaming at myself to _move, dammit, move!,_ I could only sit and watch as Minamino walked forward, knelt, and pulled Pretty into his arms. A hand went up to touch the side of her neck, and I heard him breathe a relieved sigh when he, presumably, found a pulse. He sat her upright against the fence after that, pushing hair from her face as he murmured something into the quiet alleyway.

It took a minute for me to process his words.

When I did, I shot to my feet and ran.

"Enjoy the show?" he had asked, and I heard him take off after me.

* * *

_NOTES:_

_Reji Neguro drew a lovely piece of Chiyo and Saiyuri, and it looks AWESOME! Check it out and leave Reji TONS of compliments, because it is certifiably AWESOME! There's a link on my profile!_

_Cliffy alert! =D_

_A lot of you guessed that this was taking place during the Artifacts of Darkness case, but I had some hints in earlier chapters that it took place after the series ends. When people brought up the similarities to the Artifacts arc, however, I realized just how easily I could have set it during that time. A pity I didn't, but what's done is done. -_-; I'm a dummy._

_Anyway. I'm not sure why the chapters keep being so short, but since I have two narrators I feel like it fits, somehow. It's easier to switch back and forth because shorter switches mean you can cover more times that are closer together, or something. I dunno. But I don't like posting such short stuff after not being around for so long, so I'll do my very best to write longer chapters from here on out._

_This story is probably going to be updated weekly after I finish Future Talk, so… yeah. Look forward to that?_

_**Also: Misuzu PM has TURNED THIS STORY INTO A COMIC. There are several pages up so PLEASE go check it out, and PLEASE leave her some comments! I am terribly indebted to her for doing something so nice, and spreading the word is the least I can do as payment (seriously, I need to bake her a cake!)**_

_As always, you guys rock my ever-loving world. You always have such nice (or valuably critical) things to say, and I can't thank you enough for sticking around through my shenanigans. THANK YOU! Chocolateluvr13, DevilAngelWolf27, RagingLulu, Kaijin-san, j.d.y., AkaMizu-chan, loser94, Foxgirl Ray, Dreamehz, The Secret Spot, Angel of Randomosity, Reclun, SillyGoddessDisco, etowa-ru, Panda-chan31, Bi Gay Straight Who Cares, and Nothing New In this World!_


	10. Chapter 10: Threats & Texts

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 10:

"Threats & Texts"

* * *

I'm quick on my feet. That's a fact, not an opinion. I was on the competitive diving team in middleschool and my first two years of highschool, and I ran laps before every practice to warm my body up. I got so good at sprinting, in fact, that I was recruited to the track team before I quit both sports at the start of my final year of highschool (no way was I going to show my foot after… well, whatever) but just because I hadn't run in a few months didn't mean that I had lost my edge. I was still fast—two passersby who had been about to walk by the mouth of the alley when I ran out of it jumped back with startled cries, and I hardly even saw them as I pelted headlong down the street at what was probably the quickest pace I had _ever_ used.

But even though I was fast, the footsteps pounding the earth behind me were far faster.

I had a head start, of course, but when I realized that Minamino was going to easily catch me (_damn him and his long legs_, were my thoughts) I decided that trickery was more likely to win against him than speed, and luckily for me, 'trickery' might as well be my middle name. I zeroed in on a convenience store up the road, just where the crowds from the shopping distract started to reconvene, and I managed to get to the automatic glass doors a few paces ahead of Minamino. I could all but feel his breath hissing over the back of my hood when I slowed down to allow the doors time to open, and as soon as I got inside I felt a hand close over my upper arm with bruising force.

_Shit,_ I thought as he dragged me into the rows of canned goods and packaged nuts without a glance at my face. _Shit. SHIT._ _God of trickery, don't desert me—what the hell do I _do_?_

Minamino (_but Pretty called him Kurama,_ I thought, _and he said he was a poor excuse for a demon, but what does all of that mean?) _tugged me toward the back of the store and into the very last row, one that had a line of refrigerated cases on one side and bagged chips and stuff on the other. It was far enough away from the front counter to keep our conversation from being overheard by the cashier, which was probably what Minamino—Kurama—whatever—wanted, but it wasn't what I wanted at all.

_Stop the world; I want off!_ I thought as Minamino jerked to a halt. The cold from the refrigerators hardly compared to the icy ball of nerves inside my chest, but I kept my head down and stared at Minamino's shined shoes and tried not to faint from fright as my joints locked up. Pulse beat in my wrists like gunfire.

"Who are you?" Minamino hissed over the hum of the coldcases. I didn't look up, hiding behind my hood as he asked: "Why were you following me?"

I did not reply. His hands on my shoulders tightened cruelly; I held back a pained squeak because no _way_ was I letting this psycho see me squirm!

"Answer me," he spat, his normally smooth voice contorting into sibilant fury. "I have no time for games!"

"I—" I started to blurt, unsure of my cover story, but Kurama interrupted me.

"Did Yomi send you?" he asked. When I didn't answer, because who the heck was Yomi and why the hell would he send someone after Minamino?, Minamino gave me a subtle but hard shake, one that the cashier wouldn't see.

"Answer me!" he hissed again. "Did Yomi send you?"

"Yes!" I blurted, because panic made it hard to think and who the heck was _Yomi_, anyway?

Well, whoever he was, Minamino seemed satisfied. "I knew you smelled familiar," he murmured in triumph. "He should know better than to send one of his own subjects after me."

Still staring at his shoes, I thought: _Wait, _smell_? Um, gross much!_

I was so caught up in being repulsed that his next words took me by surprise. "Who are you, exactly?" he asked—no, demanded. "One of the parasites in an unsuspecting host?"

_Parasites?_

He did not let me reply, and said: "Show me your face!"

_No way in hell!_ I thought, alarm making adrenaline pound anew. I wrenched away from him as hard as I could, but I got nowhere under the domain of his incredible strength and he jerked me forward, pulling me up against his body so he could wrap his arms around my torso the way a loving boyfriend would, only there was nothing even remotely loving about the way his ground his pointed chin down onto the top of my head and dug his fingers into my shoulders so hard I was sure I'd have bruises the next morning.

To anyone on the outside it would look like two teenagers having a spontaneous cuddle, but to me it was more like abuse.

"Why won't you show me your face?" he whispered in a voice like silk sandpaper. He paused, thinking about it, and then his fingers got even tighter. "Yomi didn't send a conspicuous spy, did he?" he said, voice dangerous and low, and then he chuckled. The darkness in the sound would have set me to shaking had his grip not prevented it. "What do you have—horns? Scales? Feathers? Let me see your face to find out, insect."

I started struggling again, intent on letting out a shriek before his hand wormed between us and grabbed me by the jaw, pinching my cheeks into a fish-face and grinding tight into my bones. He jerked my face back and kept his other arm tight around my waist, back turned to the cashier so it would only like we were two teenagers making out, and then I saw his cool green eyes and tumble of flaming hair and his milky skin, all swathed in cool amusement and buried fury. The look paralyzed me, making all thoughts of resistance flee for the hills, and I knew that this expression was probably the scariest look I had ever seen grace the face of a human being.

Not that Minamino was a human, of course. With every passing second I was becoming convinced that he and I had nothing in common at all, not even our specie, because what human could look like _that_, anyway?

"Tell your master that causing me trouble is no way to regain my allegiance," Minamino said when my hood fell back onto my shoulder blades, mussed hair whisping around my face. "I am my own man. I have been since the last tournament, and—"

He froze midsentence. Recognition dawned in his eyes and I silently willed him not to recognize me, to not remember the girl who gave him that letter and insulted him, _why did I give him that stupid godforsaken letter and why the heck did I give him that much lip about it, anyway? Stupid Chiyo, stupid stupid stupid!_

"You're that girl," he said, tone going from menacing to confused (_The jig is up,_ I thought). Then his eyes hardened and darted across my face as if searching for something. "A parasite it is, then?"

I stared at him in frightened bewilderment, and then his hand tightened on my jaw.

"You saw what I did to your kinfolk," Minamino hissed, teeth flashing between his lips. They seemed sharper than normal teeth, _why did they seem sharper than normal teeth? _"This ruse is futile because I know what you are. Don't think you can hide in my classmate and get away with it, maggot!"

_Maggot._

The word triggered a memory in an instant, a memory of Miss Pretty turning evil and mean and masculine at the sound of the derogatory word when it fell from Minamino's perfect lips. My body reacted before my head could figure out why, twisting my less-perfect lips into an unhinged smile that mimicked Pretty's exactly before shoving at Minamino as hard as I could. He let me go, startled by my looks and actions working in tandem, and as I stumbled back a step my vocal chords dipped low into themselves; my voice came out scratchy, deep, and hateful.

"I don't intend to get away with it," I said, trying my best to sound like Christian Bale from the Batman movies, and I shoved my hand into my skirt's pocket. From it I pulled my best nail file, the metal one with the sharpened tip and Emory board on the side, and with a chuckle I held it up to my jugular.

_Fall for it fall for it fall for it fall for it,_ I thought over and over again as I tried not to let my evil façade slip. _Fall for it fall for it fall for it fall—_

He took a step toward me. I flinched and accidentally pressed the file against my neck so hard that I actually hurt myself. Minamino's eyes widened when he saw the blood trickle down my neck (I don't know how I managed not to look surprised at my own actions, personally, but I did try to make it look like I'd done the action on purpose), and he put his hands up in a placating gesture, face melting into softness and imploring supplication.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said soothingly. "Really, I don't. Just put the file down and we can talk about this."

I grimaced under my evil smile; he really was an excellent actor, and I was lucky I was already on my guard. Otherwise, who knows what might have happened?

"You _won't_ hurt me if you don't try anything stupid." I tilted my head to one side, trying my best to seem deranged. "No heroics. Just cooperation. Capiche?"

Minamino stared at me as his hopeful expression faded, face screwing up with a rage unlike anything he'd ever shown me or my classmates at school. He looked about ready to bite my head off as I took a step backward, still chuckling in my best evil-villain impersonation, and when I got a good ten feet away from him down the aisle he spoke.

"Let my classmate go, maggot," he said. "Though it is not beneath me, I do not wish for violence. I don't want to hurt her."

"Not likely," I growled. Because the role called for it, I threatened: "I'll kill her if you come any closer."

Minamino's face didn't falter, but I saw him swallow. His fists went minutely more tight, and I knew with my photographic memory of all the psychology books I'd ever read that he was backing off for fear of hurting the hostage (ha!), so I backed off, too—I carefully walked backward out of the store, holding his furious gaze as I held the nail file to my neck, and I snapped a sideways 'Goodnight' at the bewildered cashier as the store's doors whooshed open behind me.

When they whooshed closed after I walked out of them, I shoved the file into my pocket, turned tail, and ran.

I sensed, as I did it, that running away was becoming something of a habit.

* * *

I sent Saiyuri a text after I locked myself in one of the train station's bathrooms. _Can you meet me tonight?_ I typed as I sat on the toilet's lid. My fingers shook despite the seemingly calm words, but then my composure cracked and I wrote: _Something just happened and I NEED YOU._

_Saiyuri will have answers,_ I thought, unable to get the memory of seeing Miss Pretty turn into a misty, silver-faced monster out of my head as I unlocked the stall, got up, and crossed the bathroom to the mirror above the sinks. I dropped my phone on the counter with a clatter.

_Yeah, answers,_ I thought, looking in the mirror._ She'll have them. She'll tell me I'm not crazy._

I grimaced; I didn't look good, not good at all. My eyes seemed haggard and bagged as I shakingly dabbed on fresh makeup, reversed my jacket to the yellow side, and doused myself head to toe in body spray. The body spray was more of a comfort thing than filing my nails at that point. Minamino had, after all, said he could recognize me by smell.

_What is he?_ I thought, staring at myself again. I slowly began to re-braid my hair. _What is he, that he gets mixed up with, with—_

I spotted the blood on my neck.

_—with _demons_?_

I couldn't help but shudder when the thought and sight hit me at once. My fingers fumbled on my braid and I let it unravel as I slumped, hands braced on the filthy bathroom counter as I stared at my cute shoes, and memories of the silver face and Miss Pretty's strange voice and Minamino's even stranger words made my knees begin to shake. I tried to push the memories away, and when that didn't work I tried to convince myself that I was mistaken, that I _hadn't_ seen a mist pour out of Miss Pretty's mouth before Minamino banished it with a word, but that couldn't be right because it was _impossible_ for me to not remember, it was _impossible_ for me to be mistaken, _I had photographic memory, dammit, and I wasn't capable of forgetting!_

"I'm going crazy," I moaned, threading my fingers into my loose hair so I could pull it. Pain made my thoughts run clear and made memories of the monster even clearer. Again I moaned: "I'm going nuts!"

Then, however, a memory of Saiyuri's medical charts—charts I'd pried into when I raided the student office at school only days before—made me realize that my memories of demons and parasites weren't as crazy as they sounded. Saiyuri herself had, after all, said similar things when she had been lock—

My phone buzzed on the bathroom counter, making me jump in misplaced fright, and I nearly dropped the thing when I flipped it open to read Saiyuri's text.

_I'm on my way_, she had written. _Where can I find you, Chiyo?_

I almost started to cry when I began to type out a reply. Despite how much I thought I hated that bitch, despite how much I resented her for getting me mixed up in this, despite how I pitied her—she'd been feeling these almost unbearable emotions for years, and here I was, about to have a breakdown after half an hour…

I took a deep breath and sent her the message, thinking: _Despite all she's done to me, if anyone can help me understand, it's her._

* * *

_NOTES:_

_Not much to say, other than I'm sorry it's short. Next time we'll have a chapter than reveals a LOT of what Saiyuri's gone through and I figured _hey, Chiyo's had enough time in the spotlight, I'll keep this quick_. Anyway, the next one is from Saiyuri's POV and will tie the plot together, I promise. _

_We have a new picture of Chiyo on our hands, by Jettie! A link to the awesomeness is on my profile, so go take a look and be amazed by her skills!_

_Many, many, MANY THANKS to those who reviewed. I'm amazed that this story has been as well-received as it's been, because the response has been amazing and I love you all! Out-Of-Control-Authoress, chocolateluvr13, Kaijin-san, j.d.y., itsallaboutbob, , Panda-chan31, Misuzu-PM, Kajihenge Yoko, destinyswindow, DevilAngelWolf27, AkaMizu-chan, TallyYoungBlood, RealityBoresMe, Angel of Randomosity, LadyoftheGags, dumbrat, SillyGoddessDisco, Reclun, FUNK, DaAmazingMeepers, LeahChristine09, Times Unfettered Imagination Bomb, heve-chan!_


	11. Chapter 11: Deals & Devils

Fakes & Fiends

Chapter 11:

"Deals & Devils"

* * *

One maid pulled me out of the bath and wrapped me in a towel while the other scurried off to queue up the car; I shrugged the proffered towel aside and walked into my closet so I could grab a grey sweater and a long black skirt, uncaring of the way my sopping hair dappled the shirt with dark drops or of the way the skirt clung to my damp legs. I slammed the closet door in the maid's face so I could dress myself in private (Father seemed to think wealth meant not having to dress yourself; I thought differently, not that I'd ever tell him) and once clothed I put on shoes and strode out of my room with the maid trotting at my heels like a hungry dog.

She even barked like a dog, too. "You know the Master would not approve of you going out at this time of night!" she whispered at my back, "especially not after one of your examinatio—"

I tossed a glare over my shoulder, because _no one_ was supposed to talk about my testing regimen, least of all a simple maid, and she shut up with a paling face. By the time we descended the front hall's sweeping staircase the front doors had been thrown open by a pair of butlers, and through their open expanse I saw a shiny black vehicle crouched on the driveway. The driver stood by the front tire, waiting to open a door for me, but when I saw him I stopped on the threshold of the mansion and sneered down my nose. I knew from the dozens of times I'd seen Father stand in my position that the light from the house silhouetted my body, making my eyes glitter even as it cast the rest of me into disconcerting shadow.

"I want the driver I had earlier today," I said coldly. The warm night air started to make my wet hair frizz. "Find him."

My current driver's face faltered beneath his sleek leather cap, and but he did not argue as he lifted the cuff of his sleeve to his mouth and muttered into it. I waited on the threshold, motionless and stony faced, until footsteps slapped the pavement and a young man dashed into the pool of light the open front doors spilled onto the driveway.

"Thank you for requesting me, Saiyuri-san," he said, dipping a low bow next to the rejected driver, and once I told him "That's enough" he rose, turned, and opened the backseat for me. I descended the marble stairs and climbed into the leather interior, settling myself as he shut the door and pulled the car away from the house. I told him that I needed to go to a certain train station (I did not tell him why or look at Chiyo's message) and his only response was an obedient nod.

"What is your name?" I asked once we were a certain distance from the mansion.

He swallowed before speaking. "It's Taka, Saiyuri-san."

"Well then Taka," I said, "I would prefer it if you did not tell anyone where we go tonight. However, considering that Father is as paranoid as I am, I assume that this car can be traced."

Dark eyes flickered toward me in the rearview mirror, guilt written all over them.

"I also assume that you have been instructed to report whatever it is I do tonight to my Father," I continued. I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. "This is fine, since you won't be finding out anything of note. Simply stay with the car and allow me to go out on my own, and we will be fine. Can you do that?"

He hesitated.

"I requested you," I said slowly, "because you wished me luck before my test this evening." My eyes opened and stared straight at him in the mirror, catching him off guard. I schooled my voice into the realm of vulnerability, because I knew it would endear me to him. "No one has ever said that to me before," I said softly, and I fluttered my eyes closed.

A low gasp made me look at him again; his mouth had thinned, eyes hard and disbelieving.

"It's the way my life has always been," I snapped, dropping the defenseless veneer.

"I'm sorry," said the driver.

"I don't need your pity."

Neither of us spoke for a while.

"Just stay out of my way, and don't try to stop me," I finally told him.

"Yes, Saiyuri-san."

* * *

Chiyo flat-out ran out of the train station when I texted her, flying headlong down its steps as she approached the car waiting by the curb. People stared at her and the vehicle, because a young woman running for her life and a limousine weren't common sights in that wholesome and ordinary part of town, and she jumped in the door the driver had opened for her with a face that had paled behind her light coating of makeup. To my surprise, she didn't sit down once she got in, choosing instead to kneel on the seats so she could throw her arms around my neck and cling to me, body pressed tight and trembling against my torso. She smelled like rose perfume.

"Oh my god, Saiyuri," she half-whispered, half-sobbed. "Oh my god, _Saiyuri_!"

I had no idea what to do when she did that, and, unused as I was to physical contact that was affectionate in nature, I just froze and allowed her to press her face into my neck. She breathed fast from nerves and fear (I could all but smell the emotion on her) and after a few moments she started to calm down. I wedged my hands between us and grabbed her shoulders, easing her off of me and onto the seat at my side.

The door slammed as the driver got back into his seat. Chiyo flinched, big brown eyes darting toward him when he asked: "Where to now, Saiyuri-san?"

"Meioh Highschool, please," I instructed, and when Chiyo looked confused I added in a low voice: "We will have privacy there."

She nodded slowly, licking her lips as she settled down for the ride. I could see in her face that she knew not to say anything in front of our driver, and despite how scared she looked and despite how badly her perfectly manicured hands trembled when she pressed them tight to her knees, her makeup was faultless and her hair didn't have a strand out of place. Her, clothes, however—a sunny yellow sweatshirt and a black skirt—were rumpled and the hem of the skirt was stained, the only testaments to the night she'd just lived through.

Not that I knew anything about that night, of course. It's just that if someone as unflappable as Makoto Chiyo was flapped enough to _hug_ someone like _me_, I knew that the night could not have been a pleasant one.

We drove to school in silence, Chiyo occasionally stealing glances at me and the driver. I tried to smile at her once, but I'm not used to making that expression and I think it might have looked more like a grimace; I don't know. Still, Chiyo seemed comfortable enough afterwards to cuddle up to herself and shut her eyes, napping until we pulled to a stop in front of the school's gate. I had to touch her shoulder to wake her. She opened her door and hopped out before the driver could finish opening mine and get to hers, but I didn't reprimand her. She'd learn eventually.

"Do you have the keys?" I asked. The school was dark and empty and silent, but Chiyo showed no fear when she dipped her fingers into the neck of her sweatshirt and pulled out a chain. She fitted a key to the padlock on the gates and opened it, walking onto the shadowy grounds without a backward glance, and I shot my driver a harsh look when he made to follow me inside.

"Take the car and drive around the school," I told him. "We'll come out when we want to."

He obviously didn't like this idea, but he didn't try to stop me and just bowed before getting back in the limo.

I pivoted on my heel and went after Chiyo.

The schoolyard is made of brick and it's lined with trees—someone wanted to make it aesthetically pleasing, I guess, but at night it just appears foreboding, like one wrong turn into those trees and you'll lose yourself forever. Chiyo hadn't bothered to go into them, however, and stood halfway between the front gate and the school's front doors. She stared at me, her eye color lost in the dark when I breezed past her and said: "Follow me."

She did as asked, for once showing her long-lost submissive side. I led her right up to the school building, but I did not go inside and instead chose to make a sharp left, following the school's outside wall until I rounded a corner. Eventually we found ourselves at the back of the school by the athletic track and sport fields, but I cut across the soccer pitch and beelined for a tall chain link fence at the edge of the school's property. Night wind stirred my hair; it smelled like car exhaust and, as we got ever closer to the fence, like chlorine.

"The pool?" Chiyo asked, raising an eyebrow when I bade her open the locked door.

"My father," I began, but I stopped.

"Your father what?"

"My father might have… bugged, the rest of the school," I managed to admit, and Chiyo looked momentarily shocked.

"Oh," she said, and then shock turned into understanding (_Just how much does she know?_ I wondered). "Oh. Right." She found one of the keys on her necklace, shined nails glittering in the dark. "Gimme a sec…"

Chiyo opened the door and we went in, shutting the gate behind us.

"Lights?" she said.

"No," I said. Vague illumination from the city lights reflecting off the layer of clouds coating the sky made it hard to see, but not impossible. "People will know we're here."

"Good point—hey, what the hell?"

I had reached for the hem of my shirt and stripped it off over my head. Turning to her, I said: "My clothes might have been bugged. Yours too. Get in the water."

"Wait, why would my clothes be—oh." Wide eyes narrowed. "Your dad again?"

"He has an invested interest in my personal life," I said, unzipping my skirt so it pooled on the ground around my feet.

"Is that why a few of the janitors carry guns?"

I went still and slowly turned my head in her direction. She stood with feet shoulder width apart, bold and unyielding.

"I know more about you than you think, Saiyuri," she said, eyes as hard as flint. "Your father, there's a rumor that he's Yakuza, or something like it. Big black cars and guns aren't exactly subtle."

"Really?" was all I could manage.

"Yeah. And I broke into the student records last week." She tossed her braid over her shoulder. "My personal files were outdated."

"So you know everything," I said.

"No." She swallowed, eyes on my body bare but for underclothes. "But I do know that _those_ wounds aren't from your time in a mental hospital two years ago."

The night was cool, but not uncomfortably so. I shivered when I looked at myself, at the fresh welts on my wrists from the leather straps and at the circular burns from the electrodes that spotted me like some kind of wildcat. Some were old, white and faded from years ago, but the others still wept blood.

"I know that you suffered from delusions, Saiyuri," she said, regaining my attention. My heart began to beat a little quicker. "I know that all your life you claimed to see things, horrible things like ghosts and demons and death, but you kept it within the family until your first day at Meioh High when you ran to the nurse's office and collapsed into a fit, screaming and crying because you claimed a boy in your class had…"

She trailed off. I gave a hollow laugh.

"Fox ears and a tail?" I supplied.

Chiyo blinked like a hummingbird beating its wings, but she said nothing.

"Yes, I used to see things," I told her. I walked to the edge of the pool and sat down, sliding into the frigid water with a hiss before wading out into the shallow end. Liquid swirled around my thighs, soothing despite the cold; a few of my wounds wept dark streams of blood into the water. "They thought I was simply over-imaginative when I was a child, but then I started to _know_ things—like when traffic would slow us down, where people were without being told, even what people were _thinking_…"

"But that's impossible, Saiyuri," Chiyo breathed, but something in her voice said she did not believe herself.

I turned to face her. "Get in the pool."

She hesitated, eyes flickering toward the ground.

"I know about your foot already, Chiyo," I warned, and with a blush I could see even in the dark she kicked off her shoes.

The truth was that I _didn't_ know about her foot—I knew something was wrong with it, but I didn't know if she had an embarrassingly shaped birthmark or if she had a tattoo she wanted to hide, or what. The truth of it was much simpler, as truths often are, and when I saw her feet slip free from their shoes…

"What, never seen someone with no toenails before?" Chiyo snapped.

Indeed, she had none. Her toes were just… bare. I had been expecting something more dramatic if I were pressed to admit how I really felt, but considering how obsessed Chiyo was with her fingernails… her reluctance to have people know about her toes made sense.

"How did it happen?" I asked.

She stripped off her shirt and sweater, standing in a bra and skirt. "We're talking about _you_, not me," she growled. A necklace glittered between her breasts.

We looked at one another for a long time, her half-dressed and dry and me with water all around. Eventually she looked away, folding her clothes so she could put them on a bench by the fence with her backpack.

"I walked in on that first day with _hope_, Chiyo," I told her when her back was turned. She froze to listen. "Father, he had just put me on a new pill regime and I didn't see anything that morning. No ghosts, no phantoms, no _nothing_. And then…"

A deep breath to steady myself.

"And then I got to _school_."

She turned to me. "And that's when you saw—"

"Him," I hissed, and Chiyo recoiled because I had bared my teeth, fists clenching to lash out at the water in agitation. "I saw _him_ standing there with silver ears and a silver tail, so misty and thin I could see straight through them, but they _were_ _there_. I even went forward and touched the tail, felt the fur, felt it ripple against my palm—"

"Saiyuri," Chiyo said, face cracking into sorrow and pity and fear.

"—but he didn't even notice me!" I snarled, nails digging into my palms. "No one noticed me, _or_ him! No one saw what I saw! No one!"

"Saiyuri, please, it's OK!" Chiyo said, holding up her hands to placate me.

My breath was coming in pants; I composed myself with effort. My eyes drifted shut. "No," I said, calmer after that. "No, it's fine." I looked at her imperiously. "I ran to the nurse and broke down. After that, my father committed me to a sanatorium. While there, I was… cured."

A splash, and then Chiyo was in the water.

"Cured how?" she asked. She did not approach me, standing hip-deep in the pool with skittishness that didn't suit her.

I shook my head. "I don't remember most of the time I spent there because of the sedatives. Just…" I paused, turning away. "Just… one night, a dark shape and a flash of light, and then the things I saw… stopped." I rounded on her. "But the boy with the tail, he was _real_ no matter what the doctors said, because after the incident he would disappear into nowhere, or _know_ things; he's more than a human, he's—"

"He's Minamino Shuichi?"

The words died in my mouth.

Chiyo's arms came up so she could hug herself, staring down at the water while she spoke. "I mean, it all makes sense," she murmured. "You were told your whole life that you were crazy, and this one boy, he utterly broke you. Now he's close enough to touch, but you can't close the distance."

I said nothing.

"And closing the distance..." She shuddered, gripping herself tighter. "If you could prove that Minamino Shuichi was more than the boy he tries to be, you could prove that you're sane." Hazel swam up and down my body. "And if you did… would you stop getting those scars?"

I barely managed the words: "I don't know."

"Because I think you're sane, Saiyuri," she said, voice starting to tremble in a very un-Chiyo-like way. "I think you're totally sane, because if you're not…"

Gently: "If I'm not?"

"Because if you're not sane then neither am I!" she said, words exploding out of her like vomit. More words followed after, words that described stalking Minamino in an alley where he assaulted a woman, a woman who wasn't really a woman at all, a woman who called him by another name—the 'infamous' name Kurama—a woman with a ghostly parasite living in her flesh, and then Chiyo told me of Minamino's words when he cornered her in the convenience store: Do you work for Yomi? Are you a parasite? Do you have horns, scales, feathers? _You smell familiar!_

When she was done, she was in tears. Brave Chiyo, unflappable Chiyo, magnetic Chiyo—crying.

A part of me was elated that she, like me, could doubt her sanity on behalf of Minamino's presence—I had been waiting for this day, after all, the day a compatriot joined me in my goal of exposing him for what he really was—but another part of me felt regret begin to bubble.

Chiyo… she didn't deserve to doubt herself like this.

"And oh god," she was saying into her hands, "and oh _god_, I left Nobu with those gangsters and went out _shopping_!" Her perfect nails came up and scrambled for the pendant around her neck, tugging at it until the chain snapped so she could throw the thing into the pool's deep end. "I'm such a bitch!" she yelled after it. "Just a callous, ungrateful bit—"

"Gangsters?"

She froze and, haltingly, explained her father's debt. Recognition made my lips thin into a firm line.

"And did the leader of these thugs," I asked, "did he wear his hair in a ponytail, and did he have a tattoo of a snake up his left arm?"

"He," Chiyo said, and stopped. Her eyes glazed over for a second—she was accessing her memory, of that I had no doubts—and they snapped back into focus when she said: "Yeah, he _did_. But how did you know that?"

Stiffly: "He's in my father's employ."

Chiyo rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, drying the tears that had gathered there. "Your dad _is_ a Yakuza?" she said through a fog of smeared mascara.

"No," I said sharply. "My father, he… he works for himself." I took a deep breath. "I will speak to Father and have your debt expunged. You need not worry about that anymore."

Her mouth dropped open, glossed lips shimmering in the low light.

"I am sorry, Chiyo," I told her before I lost the nerve. "I am sorry, but I am also grateful. Because I have involved you in this, I now have proof that I was not delusional. I have proof—"

"—that Minamino is the devil," she growled. "Remember Kara Sugoi?"

I did.

"She saw him be something else, too, like you read in her note." Her teeth showed between her lips in a snarl. "But when she met with Minamino, he told her he was an angel on a holy mission and then there was this green flash and she didn't remember _anything_." A harsh bark of laugh made her head throw back. "Ha! Minamino, an _angel_! What a load of shit!"

"Chiyo…"

She stopped laughing as suddenly as if I had flipped a switch, eyes serious and bleak. "Yeah?"

"Will you help me?"

A small smile, regretful and despairing. "Help you with what?" she asked in a soft voice. "What more can _I_ do?"

"You can help me find the truth," I told her, allowing myself to be honest. "You can _fight_ with me. I can't… I can't do it on my own." The raw admittance made my teeth clench when I met her eyes and said: "I _need_ you."

Chiyo stared at me for a long while, eyes roving across my face and down the marks on my arms as if they could tell her something, a code of patterned scar tissue engraved into my flesh. She licked the gloss off her lips slowly, choosing at last to say: "If I _don't_ help you, I'll doubt my own sanity for the rest of my life. What I saw tonight… it wasn't normal."

Her head inclined, and she was back to her old indomitable self. The spark in her eye made me want to grin, if only my face knew how.

"I'll help you," she declared. She winked. "Minamino won't get away with fucking up _my_ life. He's already fucked up my matching business, but this… this is crossing a line!"

Relief spiraled into me. "We're equals now," I breathed. "You and I—we are now _equals_."

Her eyebrow rose. "What, you mean you're not going to pay me anymore?"

"No. That will not change. But…" I held out a hand, willing her to take it as I spoke. "I could not think of you as my equal before tonight," I said, "but now… now, we are comrades in arms."

"Partners," she mused, and she moved forward. Her hand felt warm and solid against my skin. "Like in a noir crime drama, only instead of dealing with femme fatales, we're dealing with devils."

Her words did not ring true. "No," I said. "_No_."

Chiyo's eyes narrowed.

"The devils," I said, "are dealing with _us_."

And Chiyo, of course—she grinned to rival all of them.

* * *

_NOTES:_

_And now we see. Chiyo's secret, some (some) of Saiyuri's history, why Saiyuri is so obsessed with Kurama, a little about her father, all sorts of junk. How are the girls going to fight back now that they're a united force? If alone they were forces to be reckoned with, as partners they'll be bats outta hell!_

_Chiyo was having a bit of a breakdown (she's pretty bipolar, as you'll see), but who can blame her? Now she's back and ready for action! Both of the girls will kick butt! WOOOO!_

_THANKS SO MUCH, MY LOVELY READERS! FallenAngelx3, destinyswindow, Kaijin-san, OhhTaylorJade, itsallaboutbob, AngelOfRandomosity, 9shadowcat9, Eggbert3000, Off-Color, chocolateluvr13, j.d.y., Cheshire Blue Kitten, Misuzu-PM, YYHfan-KB, BiGayStraightWhoCares, Willowleaf2560, loser94, KitCat, TallyYoungBlood, HushedSilence, DaAmazingMeepers, AkaMizu-Chan, Smiles-and-Bubblegum, daydreamer!_


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